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THE LIGHT 
OF WESTERN STARS 




^ ^ ^ X. 

"i- 3 - 



The Light of Western Stars 


Copyright. 1914. by Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the United States of America 


Western Stars — 8 15 


CONTENTS 

CHAP. ^ page 

I. A Gentleman of the Range i 

II. A Secret Kept 18 

III. Sister and Brother 28 

IV. A Ride from Sunrise to Sunset 44 

V. The Round-up 56 

VI. - A Gift and a Purchase 71 

VII. Her Majesty’s Rancho 87 

VIII. El Capitan loi 

IX. The New Foreman 115 

X. Don Carlos’s Vaqueros 127 

XI. A Band of Guerrillas 148 

XII. Friends from the East 164 

XIII. Cowboy Golf 180 

XIV. Bandits 202 

XV. The Mountain Trail 220 

XVI. The Crags 232 

XVII. The Lost Mine of the Padres 252 

XVIII. Bonita 266 

XIX. Don Carlos . ‘ 274 

XX. The Sheriff of El Cajon 297 

XXI. Unbridled 320 

XXII. The Secret Told 328 

XXIII. The Light of Western Stars 341 

XXIV. The Ride 346 

XXV. At the End of the Road .. 373 



I 


THE LIGHT 
OF WESTERN STARS 


I 


A GENTLEMAN OP THE RANGE 

HEN Madeline Hammond stepped from the train 



V V at El Cajon, New Mexico, it was nearly midnight, 
and her first impression was of a huge dark space of cool, 
windy emptiness, strange and silent, stretching away 
under great blinking white stars. 

“Miss, there’s no one to meet you,” said the con- 
ductor, rather anxiously. 

“I wired my brother,” she replied. “The train being 
so late — perhaps he grew tired of waiting. He will be 
here presently. But, if he should not come — surely I can 
find a hotel?” 

“There’s lodgings to be had. Get the station agent to 
show you. If you’ll excuse me — this is no place for a lady 
like you to be alone at night. It’s a rough little town 
— mostly Mexicans, miners, cowboys. And they carouse 
a lot. Besides, the revolution across the border has 
stirred up some excitement along the line. Miss, I guess 
it’s safe enough, if you — ” 

“Thank you. I am not in the least afraid.” 

As the train started to glide away Miss Hammond 
walked toward the dimly lighted station. As she was 


2 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


about to enter she encountered a Mexican with sombrero 
hiding his features and a blanket mantling his shoulders. 

“Is there any one here to meet Miss Hammond?” she 
asked. 

''No sahe, Senora,” he replied from under the muffling 
blanket, and he shuffled away into the shadow. 

She entered the empty waiting-room. An oil-lamp gave 
out a thick yellow light. The ticket window was open, 
and through it she saw there was neither agent nor 
operator in the little compartment. A telegraph instru- 
ment clicked faintly. 

Madeline Hammond stood tapping a shapely foot on 
the floor, and with some amusement contrasted her re- 
ception in El Cajon with what it was when she left a 
train at the Grand Central. The only time she could 
remember ever having been alone like this was once when 
she had missed her maid and her train at a place outside 
of Versailles — an adventure that had been a novel and 
delightful break in the prescribed routine of her much- 
chaperoned life. She crossed the waiting-room to a 
window and, holding aside her veil, looked out. At 
first she could descry only a few dim lights, and these 
blurred in her sight. As her eyes grew accustomed to the 
darkness she saw a superbly built horse standing near the 
window. Beyond was a bare square. Or, if it was a 
street, it was the widest one Madeline had ever seen. 
The dim lights shone from low, flat buildings. She made 
out the dark shapes of many horses, all standing motion- 
less with drooping heads. Through a hole in the window- 
glass came a cool breeze, and on it breathed a sound that 
struck coarsely upon her ear — a discordant mingling of 
laughter and shout, and the tramp of boots to the hard 
music of a phonograph. 

“Western revelry,” mused Miss Hammond, as she left 
the window. “Now, what to do? I’ll wait here. Per- 
haps the station agent will return soon, or Alfred will come 
for me.” 

As she sat down to wait she reviewed the causes which 


A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANGE 


3 


accounted for the remarkable situation in which she found 
herself. That Madeline Hammond should be alone, at a 
late hour, in a dingy little Western railroad station, was 
indeed extraordinary. 

The close of her debutante year had been marred by 
the only unhappy experience of her life-^the disgrace of 
her brother and his leaving home. She dated the begin- 
ning of a certain thoughtful habit of mind from that time, 
and a dissatisfaction with the brilliant life society offered 
her. The change had been so gradual that it was per- 
manent before she realized it. For a while an active out- 
door life — golf, tennis, yachting — kept this realization 
from becoming morbid introspection. There came a time 
when even these lost charm for her, and then she believed 
she was indeed ill in mind. Travel did not help her. 

There had been months of unrest, of curiously painful 
wonderment that her position, her wealth, her popularity 
no longer sufficed. She believed she had lived through 
the dreams and fancies of a girl to become a woman of 
the world. And she had gone on as before, a part of the 
glittering show, but no longer blind to the truth — that 
there was nothing in her luxurious life to make it sig- 
nificant. 

Sometimes from the depths of her there flashed up at 
odd moments intimations of a future revolt. She remem- 
bered one evening at the opera when the curtain had 
risen upon a particularly well-done piece of stage scenery 
— a broad space of deep desolateness, reaching away 
under an infinitude of night sky, illumined by stars. The 
suggestion it brought of vast wastes of lonely, rugged 
earth, of a great, blue-arched vault of starry sky, pervaded 
her soul with a strange, sweet peace. 

When the scene was changed she lost this vague new 
sense of peace, and she turned away from the stage in 
irritation. She looked at the long, curved tier of glitter- 
ing boxes that represented her world. It was a distin- 
guished and splendid world — the wealth, fashion, culture, 
beauty, and blood of a nation. She, Madeline Hammond, 


4 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


was a part of it. She smiled, she listened, she talked to 
the men who from time to time strolled into the Ham- 
mond box, and she felt that there was not a moment when 
she was natural, true to herself. She wondered why these 
people could not somehow, some way be different; but 
she could not tell what she wanted them to be. If they 
had been different they would not have fitted the place; 
indeed, they would not have been there at all. Yet she 
thought wistfully that they lacked something for her. 

And suddenly realizing she would marry one of these 
men if she did not revolt, she had been assailed by a great 
weariness, an icy-sickening sense that life had palled upon 
her. She was tired of fashionable society! She was tired 
of polished, imperturbable men who sought only to please 
her. She was tired of being f^ted, admired, loved, fol- 
lowed, and importuned; tired of people; tired of houses, 
noise, ostentation, luxury. She was so tired of herself! 

In the lonely distances and the passionless stars of 
boldly painted stage scenery she had caught a glimpse of 
something that stirred her soul. The feeling did not last. 
She could not call it back. She imagined that the very 
boldness of the scene had appealed to her; she divined 
that the man who painted it had found inspiration, joy, 
strength, serenity in rugged nature. And at last she 
knew what she needed — to be alone, to brood for long 
hours, to gaze out on lonely, silent, darkening stretches, 
to watch the stars, to face her soul, to find her real self. 

Then it was she had first thought of visiting the brother 
who had gone West to cast his fortune with the cattlemen. 
As it happened, she had friends who were on the eve of 
starting for California, and she made a quick decision to 
travel with them. When she calmly annoimced her in- 
tention of going out West her mother had exclaimed in 
consternation; and her father, siuprised into pathetic 
memory of the black sheep of the family, had stared at 
her with glistening eyes. “Why, Madeline! You want 
to see that wild boy!” Then he had reverted to the anger 
he still felt for his wayward son, and he had forbidden 


A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANGE 


5 


Madeline to go. Her mother forgot her haughty poise 
and dignity. Madeline, however, had exhibited a will she 
had never before been known to possess. She stood her 
ground even to reminding them that she was twenty-foiu* 
and her own mistress. In the end she had prevailed, and 
that without betraying the real state of her mind. 

Her decision to visit her brother had been too hurriedly 
made and acted upon for her to write him about it, and 
so she had telegraphed him from New York, and also, a 
day later, from Chicago, where her traveling friends had 
been delayed by illness. Nothing could have turned her 
back then. Madeline had planned to arrive in El Cajon 
on October 3d, her brother’s birthday, and she had suc- 
ceeded, though her arrival occurred at the twenty-fourth 
hour. Her train had been several hours late. Whether 
or not the message had reached Alfred’s hands she had 
no means of telling, and the thing which concerned her 
now was the fact that she had arrived and he was not 
there to meet her. 

It did not take long for thought of the past to give way 
wholly to the reality of the present. 

'‘I hope nothing has happened to Alfred,” she said to 
herself. “He was well, doing splendidly, the lavSt time he 
wrote. To be sure, that was a good while ago; but, then, 
he never wrote often. He’s all right. Pretty soon he’ll 
come, and how glad I’ll be! I wonder if he has changed.” 

As Madeline sat firaiting in the yellow gloom she heard 
the faint, intermittent click of the telegraph instrument, 
the low hum of wires, the occasional stamp of an iron-shod 
hoof, and a distant vacant laugh rising above the sounds 
of the dance. These commonplace things were new to 
her. She became conscious of a slight quickening of her 
pulse. Madeline had only a limited knowledge of the 
West. Like all of her class, she had traveled Europe and 
had neglected America. A few letters from her brother 
had confused her already vague ideas of plains and moun- 
tains, as well as of cowboys and cattle. She had been 
astounded at the interminable distance she had traveled, 


6 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


and if there had been anything attractive to look at in all 
that journey she had passed it in the night. And here 
she sat in a dingy little station, with telegraph wires moan- 
ing a lonely song in the wind. 

A faint sound like the rattling of thin chains diverted 
Madeline’s attention. At first she imagined it was made 
by the telegraph wires. Then she heard a step. The 
door swung wide; a tall man entered, and with him came 
the clinking rattle. She realized then that the sotmd 
came from his spurs. The man was a cowboy, and his 
entrance recalled vividly to her that of Dustin Famum 
in the first act of “The Virginian.” 

“Will you please direct me to a hotel?” asked Madeline, 
rising. 

The cowboy removed his sombrero, and the sweep he 
made with it and the accompanying bow, despite their 
exaggeration, had a kind of rude grace. He took two long 
strides toward her. 

“Lady, are you married?” 

In the past Miss Hammond’s sense of humor had often 
helped her to overlook critical exactions natural to her 
breeding. She kept silence, and she imagined it was just 
as well that her veil hid her face at the moment. She 
had been prepared to find cowboys rather striking, and 
she had been warned not to laugh at them. 

This gentleman of the range deliberately reached down 
and took up her left hand. Before she recovered from 
her start of amaze he had stripped off her glove. 

‘ ‘ Fine spark, but no wedding-ring, ’ ’ he drawled. ‘ ‘ Lady, 
I’m glad to see you’re not married.” 

He released her hand and returned the glove. 

“You see, the only ho-tel in this here tovm is against 
boarding married women.” 

“Indeed?” said Madeline, trying to adjust her wits to 
the situation. 

“It sure is,” he went on. “Bad business for ho-tels 
to have married women. Keeps the boys away. 
see, this isn’t Reno.” 


A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANGE 7 

Then he laughed rather boyishly, and from that, and 
the way he slouched on his sombrero, Madeline realized 
he was half drunk. As she instinctively recoiled she not 
only gave him a keener glance, but stepped into a position 
where a better light shone on his face. It was like red 
bronze, bold, raw, sharp. He laughed again, as if good- 
naturedly amused with himself, and the laugh scarcely 
changed the hard set of his features. Like that of all 
women whose beauty and charm had brought them much 
before the world. Miss Hammond’s intuition had been 
developed until she had a delicate and exquisitely sensi- 
tive perception of the nature of men and of her effect 
upon them. This crude cowboy, under the influence of 
drink, had affronted her; nevertheless, whatever was in 
his mind, he meant no insult. 

“I shall be greatly obliged if you will show me to the 
hotel,” she said. 

“Lady, you wait here,” he replied, slowly, as if his 
thought did not come swiftly. “I’ll go fetch the 
porter.” 

She thanked him, and as he went out, closing the door, 
she sat down in considerable relief. It occurred to her 
that she should have mentioned her brother’s name, 
Then she fell to wondering what living with such uncouth 
cowboys had done to Alfred. He had been wild enough 
in college, and she doubted that any cowboy could have 
taught him much. She alone of her family had ever 
believed in any latent good in Alfred Hammond, and her 
faith had scarcely survived the two years of silence. 

Waiting there, she again found herself listening to the 
moan of the wind through the wires. The horse outside 
began to potmd with heavy hoofs, and once he whinnied. 
Then Madeline heard a rapid pattering, low at first and 
growing louder, which presently she recognized as the 
galloping of horses. She went to the window, thinking, 
hoping her brother had arrived. But as the clatter in- 
creased to a roar, shadows sped by — lean horses, flying 
manes and tails, sombreroed riders, all strange and wild 


8 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


in her sight. Recalling what the conductor had said, 
she was at some pains to quell her imeasiness. Dust- 
clouds shrouded the dim lights in the windows. Then 
out of the gloom two figures appeared, one tall, the other 
slight. The cowboy was returning with a porter. 

Heavy footsteps sounded without, and lighter ones 
dragging along, and then suddenly the door rasped open, 
jarring the whole room. The cowboy entered, pulling a 
disheveled figure — that of a priest, a padre, whose mantle 
had manifestly been disarranged by the rude grasp of his 
captor. Plain it was that the padre was extremely ter- 
rified. 

Madeline Hammond gazed in bewilderment at the lit- 
tle man, so pale and shaken, and a protest trembled upon 
her lips; but it was never uttered, for this half-drunken 
cowboy now appeared to be a cool, grim-smiling devil; 
and stretching out a long arm, he grasped her and swimg 
her back to the bench. 

“You stay there!” he ordered. 

His voice, though neither brutal nor harsh nor cruel, 
had the imaccountable effect of making her feel powerless 
to move. No man had ever before addressed her in such 
a tone. It was the woman in her that obeyed — not the 
personality of proud Madeline Hammond. 

The padre lifted his clasped hands as if supplicating for 
his life, and began to speak hurriedly in Spanish. Made- 
line did not understand the language. The cowboy pulled 
out a huge gun and brandished it in the priest’s face. 
Then he lowered it, apparently to point it at the priest’s 
feet. There was a red flash, and then a thundering re- 
port that stimned Madeline. The room filled with smoke 
and the smell of powder. Madeline did not faint or even 
shut her eyes, but she felt as if she were fast in a cold 
vise. When she could see distinctly through the smoke 
she experi'^nced a sensation of immeasurable relief that 
the cowboy had not shot the padre. But he was still 
waving the gtm, and now appeared to be dragging his 
\dctim toward her. What possibly covdd be the drunken 


A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANGE 


9 


fool’s intention? This must be, this surely was a cow- 
boy trick. She had a vague, swiftly flashing recollection 
of Alfred’s first letters descriptive of the extravagant fun 
of cowboys. Then she vividly remembered a moving 
picture she had seen — cowboys playing a monstrous joke 
on a lone school-teacher. Madeline no sooner thought of 
it than she made certain her brother was introducing her 
to a little wild West amusement. She could scarcely be- 
lieve it, yet it must be true. Alfred’s old love of teasing 
her might have extended even to this outrage. Probably 
he stood just outside the door or window laughing at her 
embarrassment. 

Anger checked her panic. She straightened up with 
what composiure this surprise had left her and started 
for the door. But the cowboy barred her passage — 
grasped her arms. Then Madeline divined that her 
brother could not have any knowledge of this indignity. 
It was no trick. It was something that was happening, 
that was real, that threatened she knew not what. She 
tried to wrench free, feeling hot all over at being handled 
by this drunken brute. Poise, dignity, culture — all the 
acquired habits of character — fled before the instinct to 
fight. She was athletic. She fought. She struggled 
desperately. But he forced her back with hands of iron. 
She had never known a man could be so strong. And 
then it was the man’s coolly smiling face, the paralyzing 
strangeness of his manner, more than his strength, that 
weakened Madeline until she sank trembling against the 
bench. 

“What — do you — ^mean?” she panted. 

“Dearie, ease up a little on the bridle,” he replied, 
gaily. 

Madeline thought she must be dreaming. She could 
not think clearly. It had all been too swift, too terrible 
for her to grasp. Yet she not only saw this man, but also 
felt his powerful presence. And the shaking priest, the 
haze of blue smoke, the smell of powder — these were not 
unreal. 


lo THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


Then close before her eyes burst another blinding red 
flash, and close at her ears bellowed another report. 
Unable to stand, Madeline slipped down onto the bench. 
Her drifting faculties refused clearly to record what 
transpired during the next few moments; presently, how- 
ever, as her mind steadied somewhat, she heard, though 
as in a dream, the voice of the padre hurrying over strange 
words. It ceased, and then the cowboy’s voice stirred 
her. 

“Lady, say Si — Si. Say it — quick! Say it — Si!** 

From sheer suggestion, a force irresistible at this mo- 
ment when her will was clamped by panic, she spoke the 
word. 

“And now, lady — so we can finish this properly — 
what’s your name?” 

Still obeying mechanically, she told him. 

He stared for a while, as if the name had awakened 
associations in a mind somewhat befogged. He leaned 
back unsteadily. Madeline heard the expulsion of his 
breath, a kind of hard puff, not unusual in drunken men. 

“What name?” he demanded. 

“Madeline Hammond. I am Alfred Hammond’s 
sister.” 

He put his hand up and brushed at an imaginary some- 
thing before his eyes. Then he loomed over her, and 
that hand, now shaking a little, reached out for her veil. 
Before he could touch it, however, she swept it back, re- 
vealing her face. 

“You’re — not — Majesty Hammond?” 

How strange — stranger than anything that had ever 
happened to her before — was it to hear that name on the 
lips of this cowboy! It was a name by which she was 
familiarly known, though only those nearest and dearest 
to her had the privilege of using it. And now it revived 
her dulled faculties, and by an effort she regained con- 
trol of herself. 

“You are Majesty Hammond,” he replied ; and this time 
he affirmed wonderingly rather than questioned. 


A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANGE ii 


Madeline rose and faced him. 

“Yes, lam.” 

He slammed his gun back into its holster. 

“Well, I reckon we won’t go on with it, then.” 

“With what, sir? And why did you force me to say 
Si to this priest?” 

“I reckon that was a way I took to show him you’d 
be willing to get married.” 

“Oh! . . . You— you! ...” Words failed her. 

This appeared to galvanize the cowboy into action. 
He grasped the padre and led him toward the door, curs- 
ing and threatening, no doubt enjoining secrecy. Then 
he pushed him across the threshold and stood there 
breathing hard and wrestling with himself. 

“Here — wait — wait a minute. Miss — Miss Hammond,” 
he said, huskily. “You could fall into worse company 
than mine — though I reckon you sure think not. I’m 
pretty drunk, but I’m — all right otherwise. Just wait — 
a minute.” 

She stood quivering and blazing with wrath, and 
watched this savage fight his drunkenness. He acted 
like a man who had been suddenly shocked into a rational 
state of mind, and he was now battling with himself 
to hold on to it. Madeline saw the dark, damp hair lift 
from his brows as he held it up to the cool wind. Above 
him she saw the white stars in the deep-blue sky, and 
they seemed as unreal to her as any other thing in this 
strange night. They were cold, brilliant, aloof, distant; 
and looking at them, she felt her wrath lessen and die and 
leave her calm. 

The cowboy turned and began to talk. 

“You see — I was pretty drunk,” he labored. “There 
was a fiesta — and a wedding. I do fool things when I’m 
drunk. I made a fool bet I’d marry the first girl who 
came to town. ... If you hadn’t worn that veil — the fel- 
lows were joshing me — and Ed Linton was getting mar- 
ried — and everybody always wants to gamble. . . . I must 
have been pretty drunk.” 


12 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


After the one look at her when she had first put aside 
her veil he had not raised his eyes to her face. The cool 
audacity had vanished in what was either excessive emo- 
tion or the maudlin condition peculiar to some men when 
drunk. He could not stand still; perspiration collected 
in beads upon his forehead; he kept wiping his face with 
his scarf, and he breathed like a man after violent ex- 
ertions. 

‘'You see — I was pretty — ** he b^an. 

“Explanations are not necessary,” she interrupted. 
“I am very tired — distressed. The hour is late. Have 
you the slightest idea what it means to be a gentleman?” 

His bronzed face burned to a flaming crimson. 

“Is my brother here — in town to-night?” Madeline 
went on. 

“No. He's at his ranch.” 

“But I wired him.” 

“Like as not the message is over in his box at the P.O. 
He’ll be in town to-morrow. He’s shipping cattle for 
Stillwell.” 

“Meanwhile I must go to a hotel. Will you please — ” 

If he heard her last words he showed no evidence of 
it. A noise outside had attracted his attention. Made- 
line listened. Low voices of men, the softer liquid tones 
of a woman, drifted in through the open door. They 
spoke in Spanish, and the voices grew louder. Evidently 
the speakers were approaching the station. Footsteps 
crunching on gravel attested to this, and quicker steps, 
coming with deep tones of men in anger, told of a quarrel. 
Then the woman’s voice, hurried and broken, rising higher, 
was eloquent of vain appeal. 

The cowboy’s demeanor startled Madeline into an- 
ticipation of something dreadful. She was not deceived. 
From outside came the sound of a scuffle — a muffled shot, 
a groan, the thud of a falling body, a woman’s low cry, 
and footsteps padding away in rapid retreat. 

Madeline Hammond leaned weakly back in her seat, 
cold and sick, and for a moment her ears throbbed to the 


A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANGE 13 

tramp of the dancers across the way and the rhythm of the 
cheap music. Then into the open door-place flashed a 
girl’s tragic face, lighted by dark eyes and framed by 
dusky hair. The girl reached a slim brown hand round 
the side of the door and held on as if to support herself. 
A long black scarf accentuated her gaudy attire. 

“Senor — Gene!” she exclaimed; and breathless glad 
recognition made a sudden break in her terror. 

“Bonita!” The cowboy leaped to her. “Girl! Are 
you hurt?” 

“No, Senor.” 

He took hold of her. “I heard — somebody got shot. 
Was it Danny?” 

“No, Senor.” 

“Did Danny do the shooting? Tell me, girl.” 

“No, Senor.” 

“I’m sure glad. I thought Danny was mixed up in 
that. He had Stillwell’s money for the boys — I was 
afraid. . . . Say, Bonita, but you^ll get in trouble. Who 
was with you? What did you do?” 

“Senor Gene — they Don Carlos vaguer os — they quarrel 
over me. I only dance a leetle, smile a leetle, and they 
quarrel. I beg they be good — watch out for Sheriff Hawe 
. . . and now Sheriff Hawe put me in jail. I so frighten; 
he try make leetle love to Bonita once, and now he hate 
me like he hate Senor G«ie.” 

“Pat Hawe won’t put you in jail. Take my horse and 
hit the Peloncillo trail. Bonita, promise to stay away 
from El Cajon.” 

“5i, Senor.” 

He led her outside. Madeline heard the horse snort 
and champ his bit. The cowboy spoke low; only a few 
words were intelligible — “stirrups . . . wait . . . out of 
town . . . mountain . . . trail . . . now ride!” 

A moment’s silence ensued, and was broken by a pound- 
ing of hoofs, a pattering of gravel. Then Madeline saw 
a big, dark horse run into the wide space. She caught a 
glimpse of wind-swept scarf and hair, a little form low 


14 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

down in the saddle. The horse was outlined in black 
against the line of dim lights. There was something wild 
and splendid in his flight. 

Directly the cowboy appeared again in the, doorway. 

“Miss Hammond, I reckon we want to rustle out of 
here. Been bad goings-on. And there’s a train due.” 

She hiuried into the open air, not daring to look back 
or to either side. Her guide strode swiftly. She had 
almost to run to keep up with him. Many conflicting 
emotions confused her. She had a strange sense of this 
stalking giant beside her, silent except for his jangling 
spurs. She had a strange feeling of the cool, sweet wind 
and the white stars. Was it only her disordered fancy, or 
did these wonderful stars open and shut? She had a 
queer, disembodied thought that somewhere in ages back, 
in another life, she had seen these stars. The night seemed 
dark, yet there was a pale, luminous light — a light from the 
stars — and she fancied it would always haunt her. 

Suddenly aware that she had been led beyond the line 
of houses, she spoke: 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“To Florence Kingsley,” he replied. 

“Who is she?” 

“I reckon she’s your brother’s best friend out here.” 

Madeline kept pace with the cowboy for a few moments 
longer, and then she stopped. It was as much from 
necessity to catch her breath as it was from recurring 
fear. All at once she realized what little use her training 
had been for such an experience as this. The cowboy, 
missing her, came back the few intervening steps. Then 
he waited, still silent, looming beside her. 

“It’s so dark, so lonely,” she faltered. “How do I 
know . . . what warrant can you give me that you — that 
no harm will befall me if I go farther?” 

“None, Miss Hammond, except that I’ve seen your 
face.” 


IS 


II 

A SECRET KEPT 

B ecause of that singular reply Madeline found faith 
to go farther with the cowboy. But at the moment 
she really did not think about what he had said. Any 
answer to her would have served if it had been kind. 
His silence had augmented her nervousness, compelling 
her to voice her fear. Still, even if he had not replied at 
all she would have gone on with him. She shuddered 
at the idea of returning to the station, where she believed 
there had been murder; she could hardly have forced 
herself to go back to those dim lights in the street; she 
did not want to wander around alone in the dark. 

And as she walked on into the windy darkness, much 
relieved that he had answered as he had, reflecting that 
he had yet to prove his words true, she began to grasp 
the deeper significance of them. There was a revival of 
pride that made her feel that she ought to scorn to think 
at all about such a man. But Madeline Hammond dis- 
covered that thought was involuntary, that there were 
feelings in her never dreamed of before this night. 

Presently Madeline’s guide turned off the walk and 
rapped at a door of a low-roofed house. 

Hullo — who’s there?” a deep voice answered. 

“Gene Stewart,” said the cowboy. “Call Florence — 
quick!” 

Thump of footsteps followed, a tap on a door, and 
voices. Madeline heard a woman exclaim: “Gene! 
here when there’s a dance in town! Something wrong 
out on the range.” A light flared up and shone bright 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


through a window. In another moment there came a 
patter of soft steps, and the door opened to disclose a 
woman holding a lamp. 

“Gene! Al’s not — ” 

“A1 is all right,” interrupted the cowboy. 

Madeline had two sensations then — one of wonder at 
the note of alarm and love in the woman’s voice, and the 
other of unutterable relief to be safe with a friend of her 
brother’s. 

“It’s Al’s sister — came on to-night’s train,” the cowboy 
was saying. “I happened to be at the station, and I’ve 
fetched her up to you.” 

Madeline came forward out of the shadow. 

“Not — not really Majesty Hammond!” exclaimed 
Florence Kingsley. She nearly dropped the lamp, and 
she looked and looked, astounded beyond belief. 

“Yes, I am really she,” replied Madeline. “My train 
was late, and for some reason Alfred did not meet me. 
Mr. — Mr. Stewart saw fit to bring me to you instead of 
taking me to a hotel.” 

“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you,” Tepli^ Florence, 
warmly. “Do come in. I’m so surprised, I forget my 
manners. Why, A1 never mentioned your coming.” 

“He surely could not have received my messages,” said 
Madeline, as she entered. 

The cowboy, who came in with her satchel, had to 
stoop to enter the door, and, once in, he seemed to fill the 
room. Florence set the lamp down upon the table. Made- 
line saw a young woman with a smiling, friendly face, and a 
profusion of fair hair hanging down over her dressing-gown. 

“Oh, but A1 will be glad!” cried Florence. “Why, you 
are white as a sheet. You must be tired. What a long 
wait you had at the station! I heard the train come in 
hours ago as I was going to bed. That station ds lonely 
at night. If I had known you were coming ! Indeed, you 
are very pale. Are you ill?” 

“No. Only I am very tired. Traveling so far by rail 
is harder than I imagined. I did have rather a long wait 


A SECRET KEPT 


17 

after arriving at the station, but I can’t say that it was 
lonely.” 

Florence Kingsley searched Madeline’s face with keen 
eyes, and then took a long, significant look at the silent 
Stewart. With that she deliberately and quietly closed 
a door leading into another room. 

“Miss Hammond, what has happened?” She had 
lowered her voice. 

“I do not wish to recall all that has happened,” replied 
Madeline. “I shall tell Alfred, however, that I would 
rather have met a hostile Apache than a cowboy.” 

“Please don’t tell A1 that!” cried Florence. Then she 
grasped Stewart and pulled him close to the light. “Gene, 
you’re drunk!” 

“ I was pretty drunk,” he replied, hanging his head. 

“Oh, what have you done?” 

“Now, see here, Flo, I only — ” 

“I don’t want to know. I’d tell it. Gene, aren’t you 
ever going to learn decency? Aren’t you ever going to 
stop drinking? You’ll lose all your friends. Stillwell 
has stuck to you. Al’s been your best friend. Molly 
and I have pleaded with you, and now you’ve gone and 
done — God knows what!” 

“What do women want to wear veils for?” he growled. 
“I’d have known her but for that veil.” 

“And you wouldn’t have insulted her. But you would 
the next girl who came along. Gene, you are hopeless. 
Now, you get out of here and don’t ever come back.” 

“Flo!” he entreated. 

“I mean it.” 

“I reckon then I’ll come back to-morrow and take my 
medicine,” he replied. 

“Don’t you dare!” she cried. 

Stewart went out and closed the door. 

“Miss Hammond, you — you don’t know how this hurts 
me,” said Florence. “What you must think of us! It’s 
so unlucky that you shotild have had this happen right 
at first. Now, maybe you won’t have the heart to stay. 


i8 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


Oh, I’ve known more than one Eastern girl to go home 
without ever learning what we really are out here. Miss 
Hammond, Gene Stewart is a fiend when he’s drunk. 
All the same I know, whatever he did, he meant no shame 
to you. Come now, don’t think about it again to-night.” 
She took up the lamp and led Madeline into a little 
room. “This is out West,” she went on, smiling, as she 
indicated the few furnishings; “but you can rest. You’re 
perfectly safe. Won’t you let me help you undress — 
can’t I do an5rthing for you?” 

“You are very kind, thank you, but I can manage,” 
replied Madeline. 

“Well, then, good night. The sooner I go the sooner 
you’ll rest. Just forget what happened and think how 
fine a surprise you’re to give your brother to-morrow.” 

With that she slipped out and softly shut the door. 

As Madeline laid her watch on the bureau she noticed 
that the time was past two o’clock. It seemed long since 
she had gotten off the train. When she had turned out 
the lamp and crept wearily into bed she knew what it 
was to be utterly spent. She was too tired to move a 
finger. But her brain whirled. 

She had at first no control over it, and a thousand 
thronging sensations came and went and recurred with 
little logical relation. There were the roar of the train; 
the feeling of being lost; the sound of pounding hoofs; 
a picture of her brother’s face as she had last seen it five 
years before; a long, dim line of lights; the jingle of silver 
spurs; night, wind, darkness, stars. Then the gloomy 
station, the shadowy blanketed Mexican, the empty 
room, the dim lights across the square, the tramp of the 
dancers and vacant laughs and discordant music, the 
door flung wide and the entrance of the cowboy. She 
did not recall how he had looked or what he had done. 
And the next instant she saw him cool, smiling, devilish — 
saw him in violence; the next his bigness, his apparel, 
his physical being were vague as outlines in a dream. 
The white face of the padre flashed along in the train of 


A SECRET KEPT 


19 


thought, and it brought the same dull, half-blind, inde- 
finable state of mind subsequent to that last nerve- 
breaking pistol-shot. That passed, and then clear and 
vivid rose memories of the rest that had happened — 
strange voices betraying fury of men, a deadened report, 
a moan of mortal pain, a woman’s poignant cry. And 
Madeline saw the girl’s great tragic eyes and the wild 
flight of the big horse into the blackness, and the dark, 
stalking figure of the silent cowboy, and the white stars 
that seemed to look down remorselessly. 

This tide of memory rolled over Madeline again and 
again, and gradually lost its power and faded. All dis- 
tress left her, and she felt herself drifting. How black 
the room was — as black with her eyes open as it was when 
they were shut! And the silence — it was like a cloak. 
There was absolutely no sound. She was in another world 
from that which she knew. She thought of this fair- 
haired Florence and of Alfred; and, wondering about 
them, she dropped to sleep. 

When she awakened the room was bright with sunlight. 
A cool wind blowing across the bed caused her to put her 
hands under the blanket. She was lazily and dreamily 
contemplating the mud walls of this little room when 
she remembered where she was and how she had come 
there. 

How great a shock she had been subjected to was mani- 
fest in a sensation of disgust that overwhelmed her. She 
even shut her eyes to try and blot out the recollection. 
She felt that she had been contaminated. 

Presently Madeline Hammond again awoke to the fact 
she had learned the preceding night — that there were 
emotions to which she had heretofore been a stranger. 
She did not try to analyze them, but she exercised her self- 
control to such good purpose that by the time she had 
dressed she was outwardly her usual self. She scarcely 
remembered when she had found it necessary to control 
her emotions. There had been no trouble, no excitement, 
no unpleasantness in her life. It had been ordered for 


20 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


her — tranquil, luxurious, brilliant, varied, yet always the 
same. 

She was not surprised to find the hour late, and was 
going to make inquiry about her brother when a voice 
arrested her. She recognized Miss Kingsley’s voice ad- 
dressing some one outside, and it had a sharpness she had 
not noted before. 

“So you came back, did you? Well, you don’t look 
very proud of yourself this mawnin’. Gene Stewart, you 
look like a coyote.” 

“Say, Flo, if I am a coyote I’m not going to sneak,” 
he said. 

“ What ’d you come for?” she demanded. 

“I said I was coming round to take my medicine.” 

“Meaning you’ll not run from A1 Hammond? Gene, 
your skull is as thick as an old cow’s. A1 will never know 
anything about what you did to his sister unless you tell 
him. And if you do that he’ll shoot you. She won’t 
give you away. She’s a thoroughbred. Why, she was 
so white last night I thought she’d drop at my feet, but 
she never blinked an eyelash. I’m a woman. Gene 
Stewart, and if I couldn’t feel like Miss Hammond I know 
how awful an ordeal she must have had. Why, she’s one 
of the most beautiful, the most sought after, the most 
exclusive women in New York City. There’s a crowd of 
millionaires and lords and dukes after her. How terrible 
it ’d be for a woman like her to be kissed by a drunken 
cowpuncher ! I say it — ’ ’ 

“Flo, I never insulted her that way,” broke out Stewart. 

“It was worse, then?” she queried, sharply. 

“I made a bet that I’d marry the first girl who came 
to town. I was on the watch and pretty drunk. When 
she came — well, I got Padre Marcos and tried to bully 
her into marrying me.” 

“Oh, Lord!” Florence gasped. “It’s worse than I 
feared. . . . Gene, A1 will kill you.” 

“That ’ll be a good thing,” replied the cowboy, de- 
jectedly. 


A SECRET KEPT 


21 


“Gene Stewart, it certainly would, unless you turn over 
a new leaf,” retorted Florence. “But don’t be a fool.” 
And here she became earnest and appealing. “Go away. 
Gene. Go join the rebels across the border — you’re al- 
ways threatening that. Anyhow, don’t stay here and 
run any chance of stirring A1 up. He’d kill you just the 
same as you would kill another man for insulting your 
sister. Don’t make trouble for Al. That ’d only make 
sorrow for her, Gene.” 

The subtle import was not lost upon Madeline. She 
was distressed because she could not avoid hearing what 
was not meant for her ears. She made an effort not to 
listen, and it was futile. 

“Flo, you can’t see this a man’s way,” he replied, 
quietly. “I’ll stay and take my medicine.” 

“Gene, I could sure swear at you or any other pig- 
head of a cowboy. Listen. My brother-in-law. Jack, 
heard something of what I said to you last night. He 
doesn’t like you. I’m afraid he’ll tell Al. For Heaven’s 
sake, man, go down-town and shut him up and yourself, 
too.” 

Then Madeline heard her come into the house and pres- 
ently rap on the door and call softly: 

“Miss Hammond. Are you awake?” 

“Awake and dressed, Miss Kingsley. Come in.” 

“Oh! You’ve rested. You look so — so different. I’m 
sure glad. Come out now. We’ll have breakfast, and 
then you may expect to meet your brother any moment.” 

“Wait, please. I heard you speaking to Mr. Stewart. 
It was unavoidable. But I am glad. I must see him. Will 
you pleavSe ask him to come into the parlor a moment?” 

“Yes,” replied Florence, quickly; and as she turned 
at the door she flashed at Madeline a woman’s meaning 
glance. “Make him keep his mouth shut!” 

Presently there were slow, reluctant steps outside the 
front door, then a pause, and the door opened. Stewart 
stood bareheaded in the sunlight. Madeline remem- 
bered with a kind of shudder the tall form, the embroidered 


22 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


buckskin vest, the red scarf, the bright leather wrist- 
bands, the wide silver - buckled belt and chaps. Her 
glance seemed to run over him swift as lightning. But 
as she saw his face now she did not recognize it. The 
man’s presence roused in her a revolt. Yet something in 
her, the incomprehensible side of her natiu*e, thrilled in 
the look of this splendid dark-faced barbarian. 

“Mr. Stewart, will you please come in?” she asked, 
after that long pause. 

“I reckon not,” he said. The hopelessness of his tone 
meant that he knew he was not fit to enter a room with 
her, and did not care or cared too much. 

Madeline went to the door. The man’s face was hard, 
yet it was sad, too. And it touched her. 

“I shall not tell my brother of your — your rudeness to 
me,” she began. It was impossible for her to keep the chill 
out of her voice, to speak with other than the pride and 
aloofness of her class. Nevertheless, despite her loathing, 
when she had spoken so far it seemed that kindness and 
pity followed involuntarily. “I choose to overlook what 
you did because you were not wholly accoimtable, and 
because there must be no trouble between Alfred and 
you. May I rely on you to keep silence and to seal the 
lips of that priest? And you know there was a man 
killed or injured there last night. I want to forget that 
dreadful thing. I don’t want it known that I heard — ” 

“The Greaser didn’t die,” interrupted Stewart. 

“Ah! then that’s not so bad, after all. I am glad for 
the sake of your friend — the little Mexican girl.” 

A slow scarlet wave overspread his face, and his shame 
was painful to see. That fixed in Madeline’s mind a con- 
viction that if he was a heathen he was not wholly bad. 
And it made so much difference that she smiled down at 
him. 

“You will spare me further distress,wiU you not, please?” 

His hoarse reply was incoherent, but she needed only 
to see his working face to know his remorse and gratitude. 

Madeline went back to her room ; and presently Florence 


A SECRET .KEPT 


23 


came for her, and directly they were sitting at breakfast. 
Madeline Hammond’s impression of her brother’s friend 
had to be reconstructed in the morning light. She felt 
a wholesome, frank, sweet nature. She liked the slow 
Southern drawl. And she was piizzled to know whether 
Florence Kingsley was pretty or striking or unusual. 
She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear tan of out- 
doors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of 
Eastern women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, 
steady, almost piercing, and her hair was a beautiful 
bright, waving mass. 

Florence’s sister was the elder of the two, a stout 
woman with a strong face and quiet eyes. It was a sim- 
ple fare and service they gave to their guest; but they 
made no apologies for that. Indeed, Madeline felt their 
simplicity to be restful. She was sated with respect, sick 
of admiration, tired of adulation; and it was good to see 
that these Western women treated her as very likely they 
would have treated any other visitor. They were sweet, 
kind; and what Madeline had at first thought was a lack 
of expression or vitality she soon discovered to be the 
natural reserve of women who did not live superficial 
lives. Florence was breezy and frank, her sister quaint 
and not given much to speech. Madeline thought she 
would like to have these women near her if she were ill 
or in trouble. And she reproached herself for a fastidi- 
ousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that could not 
help distinguishing what these women lacked. 

'‘Can you ride?” Florence was asking. “That’s what 
a Westerner always asks any one from the East. Can 
you ride like a man — astride, I mean? Oh, that’s fine. 
You look strong enough to hold a horse. We have some 
fine horses out here. I reckon when A1 comes we’ll go 
out to Bill Stillwell’s ranch. We’ll have to go, whether 
we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here he’ll 
just pack us all off. You’ll love old Bill. His ranch is 
run down, but the range and the rides up in the moun- 
tains — they are beautiful. We’ll hunt and climb, and 


24 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


most of all we’ll ride. I love a horse — I love the wind in 
my face, and a wide stretch with the mountains beckon- 
ing. You must have the best horse on the ranges. And 
that means a scrap between A1 and Bill and all the cow- 
boys. We don’t all agree about horses, except in case 
of Gene Stewart’s iron-gray.” 

“Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?” 
asked Madeline. Again she had an inexplicable thrill as 
she remembered the wild flight of Stewart’s big dark 
steed and rider. 

“Yes, and that’s all he does own,” replied Florence. 
“Gene can’t keep even a quirt. But he sure loves that 
horse and calls him — ” 

At this jimcture a sharp knock on the parlor door in- 
terrupted the conversation. Florence’s sister went to 
open it. She returned presently and said: 

“It’s Gene. He’s been dawdlin’ out there on the front 
porch, and he knocked to let us know Miss Hammond’s 
brother is cornin’.” 

Florence hurried into the parlor, followed by Madeline. 
The door stood open, and disclosed Stewart sitting on the 
porch steps. From down the road came a clatter of hoofs. 
Madeline looked out over Florence’s shoulder and saw a 
cloud of dust approaching, and in it she distinguished out- 
lines of horses and riders. A warmth spread over her, a 
little tingle of gladness, and the feeling recalled her girlish 
love for her brother. What would he be like after long 
years ? 

“Gene, has Jack kept his mouth shut?” queried Flor- 
ence; and again Madeline was aware of a sharp ring in 
the girl’s voice. 

“No,” replied Stewart. 

“Gene! You won’t let it come to a fight? A1 can be 
managed. But Jack hates you and he’ll have his friends 
with him.” 

“There won’t be any fight.” 

“Use your brains now,” added Florence; and then she 
turned to push Madeline gently back into the parlor. 


A SjbCRET KEPT 


25 


Madeline’s glow of warmth changed to a blank dismay. 
Was she to see her brother act with the violence she now 
associated with cowboys? The clatter of hoofs stopped 
before the door, Looldng out, Madeline saw a bunch of 
dusty, wiry horses pawing the gravel and tossing lean 
heads. Her swift glance ran over the lithe horsemen, 
trying to pick out the one who was her brother. But she 
could not. Her glance, however, caught the same rough 
dress and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy 
Stewart. Then one rider threw his bridle, leaped from 
the saddle, and came bounding up the porch steps. 
Florence met him at the door. 

“Hello, Flo. Where is she?” he called, eagerly. With 
that he looked over her shoulder to espy Madeline. He 
actually jumped at her. She hardly knew the tall form 
and the bronzed face, but the warm flash of blue eyes was 
familiar. As for him, he had no doubt of his sister, it 
appeared, for with broken welcome he threw his arms 
arotmd her, then held her off and looked searchingl}’’ at 
her. 

“Well, sister,” he began, when Florence turned hur- 
riedly from the door and interrupted him. 

“ Al, I think you’d better stop the wrangling out there.” 

He stared at her, appeared suddenly to hear the loud 
voices from the street, and then, releasing Madeline, he 
said: 

“By George! I forgot, Flo. There is a little business 
to see to. Keep my sister in here, please, and don’t be 
fussed up now.” 

He went out on the porch and called to his men: 

“Shut off your wind. Jack! And you, too. Blaze! I 
didn’t want you fellows to come here. But as you would 
come, you’ve got to shut up. This is my business.” 

Whereupon he turned to Stewart, who was sitting on 
the fence. 

“Hello, Stewart!” he said. 

It was a greeting; but there was that in the voice which 
alarmed Madeline. 


26 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


Stewart leisurely got up and leisurely advanced to the 
porch. 

“Hello, Hammond!” he drawled. 

“Drunk again last night?” 

“Well, if you want to know, and if it's any of your mix, 
yes, I was — pretty drunk,” replied Stewart. 

It was a kind of cool speech that showed the cowboy 
in control of himself and master of the situation — not an 
easy speech to follow up with imdue inquisitiveness. 
There was a short silence. 

“Damn it, Stewart,” said the speaker, presently, “here's 
the situation: It’s all over town that you met my sister 
last night at the station and — and insulted her. Jaci ’s 
got it in for you, so have these other boys. But it’s my 
affair. Understand, I didn't fetch them here. They 
can see you square yourself, or else — Gene, you've been 
on the wrong trail for some time, drinking and all that. 
You’re going to the bad. But Bill thinks, and I think, 
you’re still a man. We never knew you to lie. Now what 
have you to say for yourself?” 

“Nobody is insinuating that I am a liar?” drawled 
Stewart. 

“No.” 

“Well, Tm glad to hear that. You see, Al, I was pretty 
drunk last night, but not drunk enough to forget the 
least thing I did. I told Pat Hawe so this morning when 
he was curious. And that’s polite for me to be to Pat. 
Well, I found Miss Hammond waiting alone at the station. 
She wore a veil, but I knew she was a lady, of course. 
I imagine, now that I think of it, that Miss Hammond 
found my gallantry rather startling, and — ” 

At this point Madeline, answering to unconsidered im- 
pulse, eluded Florence and walked out upon the porch. 

Sombreros flashed down and the lean horses jumped. 

“Gentlemen,” said Madeline, rather breathlessly; and 
it did not add to her calmness to feel a hot flush in her 
cheeks, “I am very new to Western ways, but I think 
you are laboring under a mistake, which, in justice to 


A SECRET KEPT 


27 


Mr. Stewart, I want to correct. Indeed, he was rather — 
rather abrupt and strange when he came up to me last 
night ; but as I understand him now, I can attribute that 
to his gallantry. He was somewhat wild and sudden 
and — sentimental in his demand to protect me — and it 
was not clear whether he meant his protection for last 
night or forever; but I am happy to say he offered me no 
word that was not honorable. And he saw me safely 
here to Miss Kingsley’s home.” 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


T hen Madeline returned to the little parlor with the 
brother whom she had hardly recognized. 

“Majesty!” he exclaimed. “To think of your being 
here!” 

The warmth stole back along her veins. She remem- 
bered how that pet name had sounded from the lips of 
this brother who had given it to her. 

“Alfred!” 

Then his words of gladness at sight of her, his chagrin 
at not being at the train to welcome her, were not so 
memorable of him as the way he clasped her, for he had 
held her that way the day he left home, and she had not 
forgotten. But now he was so much taller and bigger, 
so dusty and strange and different and forceful, that she 
could scarcely think him the same man. She even had 
a humorous thought that here was another cowboy bully- 
ing her, and this time it was her brother. 

“Dear old girl,” he said, more calmly, as he let her go, 
“you haven’t changed at all, except to grow lovelier. 
Only you’re a woman now, and you’ve fulfilled the name 
I gave you. God! how sight of you brings back home! 
It seems a himdred years since I left. I missed you more 
than all the rest.” 

Madeline seemed to feel with his every word that she 
was remembering him. She was so amazed at the change 
in him that she could not believe her eyes. She saw a 
bronzed, strong-jawed, eagle-eyed man, stalwart, superb 
of height, and, like the cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. 
And there was something hard as iron in his face that 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


29 


quivered with his words. It seemed that only in those 
moments when the hard lines broke and softened could 
she see resemblance to the face she remembered. It was 
his manner, the tone of his voice, and the tricks of speech 
that proved to her he was really Alfred. She had bidden 
good-by to a disgraced, disinherited, dissolute boy. Well 
she remembered the handsome pale face with its weakness 
and shadows and careless smile, with the ever-present 
cigarette hanging between the lips. The years had passed, 
and now she saw him a man — the West had made him a 
man. And Madeline Hammond felt a strong, passionate 
gladness and gratefulness, and a direct check to her sud- 
denly inspired hatred of the West. 

“Majesty, it was good of you to come. I’m all broken 
up. How did you ever do it ? But never mind that now. 
Tell me about that brother of mine.” 

And Madeline told him, and then about their sister 
Helen. Question after question he fired at her; and she 
told him of her mother; of Aunt Grace, who had died a 
year ago; of his old friends, married, scattered, vanished. 
But she did not tell him of his father, for he did not ask. 

Quite suddenly the rapid-fire questioning ceased; he 
choked, was silent a moment, and then burst into tears. 
It seemed to her that a long, stored-up bitterness was 
flooding away. It hurt her to see him — hurt her more 
to hear him. And in the succeeding few moments she 
grew closer to him than she had ever been in the past. 
Had her father and mother done right by him? Her 
pulse stirred with unwonted quickness. She did not 
speak, but she kissed him, which, for her, was an indication 
of unusual feeling. And when he recovered command 
over his emotions he made no reference to his breakdown, 
nor did she. But that scene struck deep into Madeline 
Hammond’s heart. Through it she saw what he had lost 
and gained. 

“Alfred, why did you not answer my last letters?” 
asked Madeline. “ I had not heard from you for two years.” 

“So long? How time flies! Well, things went bad 


30 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

with me about the last time I heard from you. I always 
intended to write some day, but I never did.” 

“Things went wrong? Tell me.” 

“Majesty, you mustn’t worry yourself with my trou- 
bles. I want you to enjoy yotu: stay and not be bothered 
with my difficulties.” 

“Please tell me. I suspected something had gone 
wrong. That is partly why I decided to come out.” 

“All right; if you must know,” he began; and it seemed 
to Madeline that there was a gladness in his decision to 
unburden himself. “You remember all about my little 
ranch, and that for a while I did well raising stock? I 
wrote you all that. Majesty, a man makes enemies any- 
where. Perhaps an Eastern man in the West can make, 
if not so many, certainly more bitter ones. At any rate, 
I made several. There was a cattleman. Ward by name — 
he’s gone now — and he and I had trouble over cattle. 
That gave me a back-set. Pat Hawe, the sheriff here, has 
been instrumental in hurting my business. He’s not so 
much of a rancher, but he has influence at Santa Fd and 
El Paso and Douglas. I made an enemy of him. I never 
did anything to him. He hates Gene Stewart, and upon 
one occasion I spoiled a little plot of his to get Gene in 
his clutches. The real reason for his animosity toward 
me is that he loves Florence, and Florence is going to 
marry me.” 

“Alfred!” 

“What’s the matter. Majesty? Didn’t Florence im- 
press you favorably?” he asked, with a keen glance. 

“Why — yes, indeed. I like her. But I did not think 
of her in relation to you — that way. I am greatly sur- 
prised. Alfred, is she well bom? What connections?” 

“Florence is just a girl of ordinary people. She was 
bom in Kentucky, was brought up in Texas. My aristo- 
cratic and wealthy family would scorn — ” 

“Alfred, you are still a Hammond,” said Madeline, with 
uplifted head. 

Alfred laughed. “We won’t quarrel. Majesty. I re- 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


31 


member you, and in spite of your pride you’ve got a heart. 
If you stay here a month ^^ou’ll love Florence Kingsley. 
I want you to know she’s had a great deal to do with 
straightening me up. . . . Well, to go on with my story. 
There’s Don Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and he’s my worst 
enemy. For that matter, he’s as bad an enemy of Bill 
Stillwell and other ranchers. Stillwell, by the way, is 
my friend and one of the finest men on earth. I got in 
•debt to Don Carlos before I knew he was so mean. In 
the first place I lost money at faro — I gambled some when 
I came West — and then I made unwise cattle deals. Don 
Carlos is a wily Greaser, he knows the ranges, he has the 
water, and he is dishonest. So he outfigured me. And now 
I am practically ruined. He has not gotten possession of 
my ranch, but that’s only a matter of time, pending lawsuits 
at Santa Fe. At present I have a few hundred cattle running 
on Stillwell’s range, and I am his foreman.” 

“Foreman?” queried Madeline. 

“I am simply boss of Stillwell’s cowboys, and right 
glad of my job.” 

Madeline was conscious of an inward burning. It re- 
quired an effort for her to retain her outward tranquillity. 
Annoying consciousness she had also of the returning 
sense of new disturbing emotions. She began to see just 
how walled in from unusual thought-provoking incident 
and sensation had been her exclusive life. 

“Cannot your property be reclaimed?” she asked. 
“How much do you owe?” 

“Ten thousand dollars would clear me and give me 
another start. But, Majesty, m this country that’s a 
good deal of money, and I haven’t been able to raise it. 
Stillwell’s in worse shape than I am.” 

Madeline went over to Alfred and put her hands on his 
shoulders. 

“We must not be in debt.” 

He stared at her as if her words had recalled something 
loi^ forgotten. Then he smiled. 

"^How imperious you are! I’d forgotten just who my 


32 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

beautiful sister really is. Majesty, you’re not going to ask 
me to take money from you?” 

“lam.” 

“Well, ril not do it. I never did, even when I was in 
college, and then there wasn’t much beyond me.” 

“Listen, Alfred,” she went on, earnestly, “this is en- 
tirely different. I had only an allowance then. You 
had no way to know that since I last wrote you I had 
come into my inheritance from Aunt Grace. It was — 
well, that doesn’t matter. Only, I haven’t been able to 
spend half the income. It’s mine. It’s not father’s money. 
You will make me very happy if you’ll consent. Alfred, 
I’m so — so amazed at the change in you. I’m so happy. 
You must never take a backward step from now on. What 
is ten thousand dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in 
a month. I throw money away. If you let me help you it 
will be doing me good as well as you. Please, Alfred.” 

He kissed her, evidently surprised at her earnestness. 
And indeed Madeline was siirprised herself. Once started, 
her speech had flowed. 

“You always were the best of fellows. Majesty. And 
if you really care — if you really want to help me I’ll be 
only too glad to accept. It will be fine. Florence will 
go wild. And that Greaser won’t harass me any more. 
Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending 
your money; I may as well take a little before he gets 
it all,” he finished, jokingly. 

“What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly. 

“More than you think. Even if we are lost out here 
in the woolly West we get news. Everybody knows about 
Anglesbiuy. And that Dago duke who chased you all 
over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now 
and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?” 

Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his 
gay speech. And deep in his searching glance she saw 
a flame. She became thoughtful. She had forgotten 
Castleton, New York, society. 

“Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don’t believe any 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


33 

titled gentleman will ever spend my money, as you ele- 
gantly express it.” 

“I don’t care for that. It’s you!” he cried, passion- 
ately, and he grasped her with a violence that startled 
her. He was white; his eyes were now like fire. “You 
are so splendid — so wonderful. People called you the 
American Beauty, but you’re more than that. You’re 
the American Girl! Majesty, marry no man imless you 
love him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe 
long enough to learn to know the men — the real men of 
your own country.” 

“Alfred, I’m afraid there are not always real men and 
real love for American girls in international marriages. 
But Helen knows this. It ’ll be her choice. She’ll be 
miserable if she marries Anglesbury.” 

“It’ll serve her just right,” declared her brother. 
“Helen was always crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. 
I’ll gamble she never saw more of Anglesbury than the 
gold and ribbons on his breast.” 

“I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is 
the money he wanted, I think. Alfred, tell me how you 
came to know about me, ’way out here? You may be 
assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew 
me as Majesty Hammond.” 

“I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh. 
“I told Florence about you — gave her a picture of you. 
And, of course, being a woman, she showed the picture 
and talked. She’s in love with you. Then, my dear 
sister, we do get New York papers out here occasionally, 
and we can see and read. You may not be aware that 
you and your society friends are objects of intense in- 
terest in the U. S. in general, and the West in particular. 
The papers are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you 
never did.” 

“That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, ‘You’re not 
Majesty Hammond?’” 

“Never mind his impudence!” exclaimed Alfred; and 
then again he laughed. “Gene is all right, only you’ve 


34 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

got to know him. Ill tell you what he did. He got hold 
of one of those newspaper pictures of you — the one in 
the Times; he took it away from here, and in spite of 
Florence he wouldn’t fetch it back. It was a picture of 
you in riding-habit with your blue-ribbon horse, White 
Stockings — remember? It was taken at Newport. Well, 
Stewart tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and 
named his beautiful horse Majesty. All the cowboys 
knew it. They would see the picture and tease him un- 
mercifully. But he didn’t care. One day I happened 
to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a 
carouse. I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, 
‘Gene, if my sister knew you were a drunkard she’d not 
be proud of having her picture stuck up in your room.’ 
Majesty, he did not touch a drop for a month, and when 
he did drink again he took the picture down, and he has 
never put it back.” 

Madeline smiled at her brother’s amusement, but she 
did not reply. She simply could not adjust herself to these 
queer free Western ways. Her brother had eloquently 
pleaded for her to keep herself above a sordid and brill- 
iant marriage, yet he not only allowed a cowboy to keep 
her pictiure in his room, but actually spoke of her and 
used her name in a temperance lecture. Madeline just 
escaped feeling disgust. She was saved from this, how- 
ever, by nothing less than her brother’s naive gladness 
that through subtle suggestion Stewart had been per- 
suaded to be good for a month. Something made up of 
Stewart’s effrontery to her; of Florence Kingsley meeting 
her, frankly as it were, as an equal; of the elder sister’s 
slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this visitor who had been 
honored at the courts of royalty; of that faint hint of 
scorn in Alfred’s voice, and his amused statement in re- 
gard to her picture and the name Majesty — something 
made up of all these stung Madeline Hammond’s pride, 
alienated her for an instant, and then stimulated her 
intelligence, excited her interest, and made her resolve to 
learn a little about this incomprehensible West. 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


35 


“Majesty, I must run down to the siding,” he said, 
consulting his watch. “We’re loading a shipment of 
cattle. I’ll be back by supper- time and bring Stillwell 
with me. You’ll like him. Give me the check for your 
trunk.” 

She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her 
bag, she got out a number of checks. 

“Six! Six trunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m very 
glad you intend to stay awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take 
me as long to realize who you really are as it ’ll take 
to break you of being a tenderfoot. I hope you packed 
a riding-suit. If not you’ll have to wear trousers! You’ll 
have to do that, anyway, when we go up in the mountains,” 

“No!” 

“You sure will, as Florence says.” 

“We shall see about that. I don’t know what’s in the 
trunks. I never pack an3rthing. My dear brother, what 
do I have maids for?” 

“How did it come that you didn’t travel with a maid?” 

“I wanted to be alone. But don’t you worry. I shall 
be able to look after myself. I dare say it will be good 
for me.” 

She went to the gate with him. 

“What a shaggy, dusty horse! He’s wild, too. Do 
you let him stand that way without being haltered? I 
should think he would run off.” 

“Tenderfoot! You’ll be great fun, Majesty, especially 
for the cowboys.” 

“Oh, will I?” she asked, constrainedly, 

“Yes, and in three days they will be fighting one another 
over you. That’s going to worry me. Cowboys fall in 
love with a plain woman, an ugly woman, any woman, so 
long as she’s young. And you! Good Lord! They’ll go 
out of their heads.” 

“You are pleased to be facetious, Alfred. I think I 
have had quite enough of cowboys, and I haven’t been 
here twenty-four hours.” 

“Don’t think too much of first impressions. That was 


36 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

my mistake when I arrived here. Good-by. I’ll go now. 
Better rest awhile. You look tired.” 

The horse started as Alfred put his foot in the stirrup 
and was running when the rider slipped his leg over the 
saddle. Madeline watched him in admiration. He seemed 
to be loosely fitted to the saddle, moving with the horse. 

“I suppose that’s a cowboy’s style. It pleases me,” 
she said. “How different from the seat of Eastern riders !” 

Then Madeline sat upon the porch and fell to interested 
observation of her surrounding. Near at hand it was de- 
cidedly not prepossessing. The street was deep in dust, 
and the cool wind whipped up little puffs. The houses 
along this street were all low, square, flat-roofed structures 
made of some kind of red cement. It occurred to her 
suddenly that this building-material must be the adobe 
she had read about. There was no person in sight. The 
long street appeared to have no end, though the line of 
houses did not extend far. Once she heard a horse trot- 
ting at some distance, and several times the ringing of a 
locomotive bell. Where were the moimtains, wondered 
Madeline. Soon low over the house-roofs she saw a dim, 
dark-blue, rugged outline. It seemed to charm her eyes 
and fix her gaze. She knew the Adirondacks, she had 
seen the Alps from the summit of Mont Blanc, and had 
stood under the great black, white-tipped shadow of the 
Himalayas. But they had not drawn her as these re- 
mote Rockies. This dim horizon line boldly cutting the 
blue sky fascinated her. Florence Kingsley’s expression 
“beckoning mountains” returned to Madeline. She could 
not see or feel so much as that. Her impression was rather 
that these mountains were aloof, unattainable, that if 
approached they would recede or vanish like the desert 
mirage. 

Madeline went to her room, intending to rest awhile, 
and she fell asleep. She was aroused by Florence’s knock 
and call. 

“Miss Hammond, your brother has come back with 
Stillwell.” 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


37 

“Why, how I have slept!” exclaimed Madeline. “It’s 
nearly six o’clock.” 

“I’m sure glad. You were tired. And the air here 
makes strangers sleepy. Come, we want you to meet old 
Bill. He calls himself the last of the cattlemen. He has 
lived in Texas and here all his life.” 

Madeline accompanied Florence to the porch. Her 
brother, who was sitting near the door, jumped up and 
said : 

“Hello, Majesty!” And as he put his arm around her 
he turned toward a massive man whose broad, craggy 
face began to ripple and wrinkle. “I want to introduce 
my friend Stillwell to you. Bill, this is my sister, the 
sister I’ve so often told you about — Majesty.” 

“Wal, wal, Al, this ’s the proudest meetin’ of my life,” 
replied Stillwell, in a booming voice. He extended a huge 
hand. “Miss — Miss Majesty, sight of you is as welcome 
as the rain an’ the flowers to an old desert cattleman.” 

Madeline greeted him, and it was all she could do to 
repress a cry at the way he crunched her hand in a grasp 
of iron. He was old, white-haired, weather-beaten, with 
long furrows down his cheeks and with gray eyes almost 
hidden in wrinkles. If he was smiling she fancied it. a 
most extraordinary smile. The next instant she realized 
that it had been a smile, for his face appeared to stop 
rippling, the light died, and suddenly it was like rudely 
chiseled stone. The quality of hardness she had seen in 
Stewart was immeasurably intensified in this old man’s 
face. 

“Miss Majesty, it’s plumb humiliatin’ to all of us thet 
we wasn’t on hand to meet you,” Stillwell said. “Me an’ 
Al stepped into the P. O. an’ said a few mild an’ cheerful 
things. Them messages ought to hev been sent out to 
the ranch. I’m sure afraid it was a bit unpleasant fer 
you last night at the station.” 

“I was rather anxious at first and perhaps frightened,” 
replied Madeline. 

“Wal, I’m some glad to tell you thet there’s no man in 


38 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

these parts except your brother thet I’d as lief hev met 
you as Gene Stewart.” 

“Indeed.?” 

“Yes, an’ thet’s takin’ into consideration Gene’s weak- 
ness, too. I’m alius fond of sayin’ of myself thet I’m the 
last of the old cattlemen. Wal, Stewart’s not a native 
Westerner, but he’s my pick of the last of the cowboys. 
Sure, he’s young, but he’s the last of the old style — the 
picturesque — an’ chivalrous, too, I make bold to say. Miss 
Majesty, as well as the old hard-ridin’ kind. Folks are 
down on Stewart. An’ I’m only sayin’ a good word for 
him because he is down, an’ mebbe last night he might 
hev scared you, you bein’ fresh from the East.” 

Madeline liked the old fellow for his loyalty to the cow- 
boy he evidently cared for; but as there did not seem any- 
thing for her to say, she remained silent. 

“Miss Majesty, the day of the cattleman is about over. 
An’ the day of the cowboy, such as Gene Stewart, is over. 
There’s no place for Gene. If these weren’t modem days 
he’d come near bein’ a gim-man, same as we had in Texas, 
when I ranched there in the ’seventies. But he can’t fit 
nowhere now; he can’t hold a job, an’ he’s goin’ down.” 

“I am sorry to hear it,” murmured Madeline. “But, 
Mr. Stillwell, aren’t these modem days out here just a 
little wild — yet? The conductor on my train told me of 
rebels, bandits, raiders. Then I have had other impres- 
sions of — well, that were wild enough for me.” 

“Wal, it’s some more pleasant an’ excitin’ these days 
than for many years,” replied Stillwell. “The boys hev 
took to packin’ guns again. But thet’s owin’ to the revo- 
lution in Mexico. There’s goin’ to be trouble along the 
border. I reckon people in the East don’t know there 
is a revolution. Wal, Madero wiU^oust Diaz, an’ then 
some other rebel will oust Madero. It means trouble on 
the border an’ across the border, too. I wouldn’t wonder 
if Uncle Sam hed to get a hand in the game. There’s al- 
ready been holdups on the railroads an’ raids along the 
Rio Grande Valley. An’ these little towns are full of 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


39 

Greasers, all disturbed by the fightin’ down in Mexico. 
WeVe been hevin’ shootin’-scrapes an’ knifin’-scrapes, 
an’ some cattle-raidin’. I hev been losin’ a few cattle 
right along. Reminds me of old times; an’ pretty soon, 
if it doesn’t stop. I’ll take the old-time way to stop it.” 

“Yes, indeed, Majesty,” put in Alfred, “you have hit 
upon an interesting time to visit us.” 

“Wal, thet sure ’pears to be so,” rejoined Stillwell. 
“Stewart got in trouble down heah to-day, an’ I’m more 
than sorry to hev to tell you thet your name figgered in 
it. But I couldn’t blame him, fer I sure would hev done 
the same myself.” 

“That so?” queried Alfred, laughing. “Well, tell us 
about it.” 

Madeline simply gazed at her brother, and, though he 
seemed amused at her consternation, there was morti- 
fication in his face. 

It required no great perspicuity, Madeline thought, 
to see that Stillwell loved to talk, and the way he squared 
himself and spread his huge hands over his knees sug- 
gested that he meant to do this opportunity justice. 

“Miss Majesty, I reckon, bein’ as you’re in the West 
now, thet you must take things as they come, an’ mind 
each thing a little less than the one before. If we old 
fellers hedn’t been thet way we’d never hev lasted. 

“Last night wasn’t particular bad, ratin’ with some 
other nights lately. There wasn’t much doin’. But I 
had a hard knock. Yesterday when we started in with 
a bunch of cattle I sent one of my cowboys, Danny Mains, 
along ahead, carryin’ money I hed to pay off hands an’ 
my bills, an’ I wanted thet money to get in town before 
dark. Wal, Danny was held up. I don’t distrust the lad. 
There’s been strange Greasers in town lately, an’ mebbe 
they knew about the money cornin’. 

“Wal, when I arrived with the cattle I was some put 
to it to make ends meet. An’ to-day I wasn’t in no angelic 
humor. When I hed my business all done I went around 
pokin’ my nose heah an’ there, tryin’ to get scent of thet 


40 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

money. An’ I happened in at a hall we hev thet does duty 
fer jail an’ hospital an’ election-post an’ what not. Wal, 
just then it was doin’ duty as a hospital. Last night was 
fiesta night — these Greasers hev a fiesta every week or so 
— an’ one Greaser who hed been bad hurt was layin’ in 
the hall, where he hed been fetched from the station. 
Somebody hed sent off to Douglas fer a doctor, but he 
hedn’t come yet. I’ve hed some experience with gun- 
shot wounds, an’ I looked this feller over. He wasn’t shot 
up much, but I thought there was danger of blood-poison- 
in’. Anyway, I did all I could. 

“The hall was full of cowboys, ranchers. Greasers, 
miners, an’ town folks, along with some strangers. I was 
about to get started up this way when Pat Hawe come in. 

“Pat he’s the sheriff. I reckon. Miss Majesty, thet 
sheriffs are new to you, an’ fer sake of the West I’ll ex- 
plain to you thet we don’t hev many of the real thing 
any more. Garrett, who killed Billy the Kid an’ was 
killed himself near a year or so ago — he was the kind of 
sheriff thet helps to make a self-respectin’ coimtry. But 
this Pat Hawe — wal, I reckon there’s no good in me sayin’ 
what I think of him. He come into the hall, an’ he was 
roarin’ about things. He was goin’ to arrest Danny 
Mains on sight. Wal, I jest polite-like told Pat thet the 
money was mine an’ he needn’t get riled about it. An’ 
if I wanted to trail the thief I reckon I could do it as well 
as anybody. Pat howled thet law was law, an’ he was 
goin’ to lay down the law. Sure it ’peared to me 
thet Pat was daid set to arrest the first man he could 
find excuse to. 

“Then he cooled down a bit an’ was askin’ questions 
about the wounded Greaser when Gene Stewart come in. 
Whenever Pat an’ Gene come together it reminds me of 
the early days back in the ’seventies. Jest naturally 
everybody shut up. Fer Pat hates Gene, an’ I reckon 
Gene ain’t very sweet on Pat. They’re jest natural foes 
in the first place, an’ then the course of events here in El 
Cajon has been aggravatin’. 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


41 

“‘Hello, Stewart! You’re the feller I’m lookin’ fer,’ 
said Pat. 

“Stewart eyed him an’ said, mighty cool an’ sarcastic, 
‘Hawe, you look a good deal fer me when I’m hittin’ up 
the dust the other way.’ 

“Pat went red at thet, but he held in. ‘Say, Stewart, 
you-all think a lot of thet roan horse of youm, with the 
aristocratic name?’ 

“‘I reckon I do,’ replied Gene, shortly. 

“ ‘ Wal, where is he?’ 

“‘Thet’s none of your business, Hawe.’ 

“‘Oho! it ain’t, hey? Wal, I guess I can make it my 
business. Stewart, there was some queer goings-on last 
night thet you know somethin’ about. Danny Mains 
robbed — Stillwell’s money gone — your roan horse gone — 
thet little hussy Bonita gone — an’ this Greaser near gone, 
too. Now, seein’ thet you was up late an’ prowlin’ round 
the station where this Greaser was found, it ain’t onrea- 
sonable to think you might know how he got plugged — 
is it ?’ 

“Stewart laughed kind of cold, an’ he rolled a cigarette, 
all the time eyin’ Pat, an’ then he said if he’d plugged 
the Greaser it ’d never hev been sich a bunglin’ job. 

“‘I can arrest you on suspicion, Stewart, but before I 
go thet far I want some evidence. I want to round up 
Danny Mains an’ thet little Greaser girl. I want to find 
out what’s become of your boss. You’ve never lent him 
since you hed him, an’ there ain’t enough raiders across 
the border to steal him from you. It’s got a queer look 
— thet boss bein’ gone.’ 

“‘You sure are a swell detective, Hawe, an’ I wish you 
a heap of luck,’ replied Stewart. 

“Thet ’peared to nettle Pat beyond bounds, an’ he 
stamped around an’ swore. Then he had an idea. It 
jest stuck out all over him, an’ he shook his finger in 
Stewart’s face. 

“‘You was drunk last night?’ 

“Stewart never batted an eye. 


42 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

‘You met some woman on Number Eight, didn’t you?’ 
shouted Hawe. 

“ ‘ I met a lady,’ replied Stewart, quiet an’ menacin’ like. 

“‘You met A1 Hammond’s sister, an’ you took her up 
to Kingsley’s. An’ cinch this, my cowboy cavalier, I’m 
goin’ up there an’ ask this grand dame some questions, 
an’ if she’s as close-mouthed as you are Eli arrest her!* 

“Gene Stewart turned white. I fer one expected to see 
him jump Hke lightnin’, as he does when he’s riled sudden. 
But he was calm an’ he was thinkin’ hard. Presently he 
said: 

“ ‘ Pat, thet’s a fool idee, an’ if you do the trick it ’U hurt 
you all the rest of your life. There’s absolutely no reason 
to frighten Miss Hammond. An’ tryin’ to arrest her would 
be such a damned outrage as won’t be stood fer in El 
Cajon. If you’re sore on me send me to jail. I’ll go. 
If you want to hurt A1 Hammond, go an’ do it some man 
kind of way. Don’t take your spite out on us by insultin’ 
a lady who has come hyar to hev a little visit. We’re bad 
enough without bein’ low-down as Greasers.’ 

“It was a long talk for Gene, an’ I was as surprised as 
the rest of the fellers. Think of Gene Stewart talkin’ soft 
an’ sweet to thet red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! An’ Pat, 
he looked so devilishly gleeful thet if somethin’ about 
Gene hedn’t held me tight I’d hev got in the game my- 
self. It was plain to me an’ others who spoke of it after- 
wards thet Pat Hawe hed forgotten the law an’ the officer 
in the man an’ his hate. 

“‘I’m a-goin’, an’ I’m a-goin’ right now!* he shouted. 

“An’ after thet any one could hev heerd a clock tick a 
mile off. Stewart seemed kind of chokin’, an’ he seemed to 
hev been bewildered by the idee of Hawe’s confrontin’ 
you. 

“An’ finally he burst out: ‘But, man, think who it is! 
It’s Miss Hammond! If you seen her, even if you was 
locoed or drunk, you — you couldn’t do it.’ 

‘“Couldn’t I? Wal, I’ll show you damn quick. What 
do I care who she is? Them swell Eastern women — I’ve 


SISTER AND BROTHER 


43 

heerd of them. They’re not so much. This Hammond 
woman — ’ 

“Suddenly Hawe shut up, an’ with his red mug turnin’ 
green he went for his gun.’’ 

Stillwell paused in his narrative to get breath, and he 
wiped his moist brow. And now his face began to lose 
its cragginess. It changed, it softened, it rippled and 
wrinkled, and all that strange mobility focused and shone 
in a wonderful smile. 

“An’ then. Miss Majesty, then there was somethin’ 
happened. Stewart took Pat’s gun away from him and 
throwed it on the floor. An’ what followed was beauti- 
ful. Sure it was the beautifulest sight I ever seen. Only 
it was over so soon ! A little while after, when the doctor 
came, he hed another patient besides the wounded Greaser, 
an’ he said thet this new one would require about four 
months to be up an’ arotmd cheerful-like again. An’ Gene 
Stewart hed hit the trail for the border.” 


44 


IV 

A RIDE FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET 

N ext moming, when Madeline was aroused by her 
brother, it was not yet daybreak; the air chilled her, 
and in the gray gloom she had to feel aroimd for matches 
and lamp. Her usual languid manner vanished at a 
touch of the cold water. Presently, when Alfred knocked 
on her door and said he was leaving a pitcher of hot 
water outside, she replied, with chattering teeth, “Th- 
thank y-you, b-but I d-don’t ne-need any now.” She found 
it necessary, however, to warm her numb fingers before 
she could fasten hooks and buttons. And when she was 
dressed she marked in the dim mirror that there were 
tinges of red in her cheeks. 

“Well, if I haven’t some color!” she exclaimed. 
Breakfast waited for her in the dining - room. The 
sisters ate with her, Madeline quickly caught the feeling 
of brisk action that seemed to be in the air. From the 
back of the house sounded the tramp of boots and voices 
of men, and from outside came a dull thump of hoofs, the 
rattle of harness, and creak of wheels. Then Alfred came 
stamping in. 

“Majesty, here’s where you get the real thing,” he 
announced, merrily. “We’re rushing you off, I’m sorry to 
say; but we must hustle back to the ranch. The fall 
rotmd-up begins to-morrow. You will ride in the buck- 
board with Florence and Stillwell. I’ll ride on ahead 
with the boys and fix up a little for you at the ranch. 
Your baggage will follow, but won’t get there till to-mor- 
row sometime. It’s a long ride out — nearly fifty miles 


A RIDE 


45 


by wagon-road. Flo, don’t forget a couple of robes. Wrap 
her up well. And hustle getting ready. We’re waiting.” 

A little later, when Madeline went out with Florence, 
the gray gloom was lightening. Horses were champing 
bits and pounding gravel. 

“Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” said Stillwell, gruffly, from 
the front seat of a high vehicle. 

Alfred bundled her up into the back seat, and Florence 
after her, and wrapped them with robes. Then he mounted 
his horse and started off. “Gid-eb!” growled Stillwell, 
and with a crack of his whip the team jmnped into a trot. 
Florence whispered into Madeline’s ear: 

“Bill’s grouchy early in the mawnin’. He’ll thaw out 
soon as it gets warm.” 

It was still so gray that Madeline could not distinguish 
objects at any considerable distance, and she left El Cajon 
without knowing what the town really looked like. She 
did know that she was glad to get out of it, and found an 
easier task of dispelling persistent haunting memory. 

“Here come the cowboys,” said Florence. 

A line of horsemen appeared coming from the right and 
fell in behind Alfred, and gradually they drew ahead, to 
disappear from sight. While Madeline watched them 
the gray gloom lightened into dawn. All about her was 
bare and dark; the horizon seemed close; not a hill nor 
a tree broke the monotony. The groimd appeared to 
be flat, but the road went up and down over little ridges. 
Madeline glanced backward in the direction of El Cajon 
and the mountains she had seen the day before, and she 
saw only bare and dark ground, like that which rolled 
before. 

A puff of cold wind struck her face and she shivered. 
Florence noticed her and pulled up the second robe and 
tucked it closely round her up to her chin. 

“If we have a little wind you’ll sure feel it,” said the 
Western girl. 

Madeline replied that she already felt it. The wind 
appeared to penetrate the robes. It was cold, piure, 


46 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

nipping. It was so thin she had to breathe as fast as if 
she were under ordinary exertion. It hurt her nose and 
made her lungs ache. 

“Aren’t you co-cold?” asked Madeline. 

“I?” Florence laughed. “Fm used to it. I never get 
cold.” 

The Western girl sat with ungloved hands on the out- 
side of the robe she evidently did not need to draw up 
around her. Madeline thought she had never seen such 
a clear-eyed, healthy, splendid girl. 

“Do you like to see the sun 'rise?” asked Florence. 

“Yes, I think I do,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. 
“Frankly, I have not seen it for years.” 

• “We have beautiful sunrises, and sunsets from the ranch 
are glorious.” 

Long lines of pink fire ran level with the eastern hori- 
zon, which appeared to recede as day brightened. A 
bank of thin, fleecy clouds was turning rose. To the 
south and west the sky was dark; but every moment it 
changed, the blue turning bluer. The eastern sky was 
opalescent. Then in one place gathered a golden light, 
and slowly concentrated till it was like fire. The rosy 
bank of cloud turned to silver and pearl, and behind it 
shot up a great circle of gold. Above the dark horizon 
gleamed an intensely bright disk. It was the sun. It rose 
swiftly, blazing out the darkness between the ridges and 
giving color and distance to the sweep of land. 

“Wal, wal,” drawled Stillwell, and stretched his huge 
arms as if he had just awakened, “thet’s somethin’ like.” 

Florence nudged Madeline and winked at her. 

“Fine mawnin’, girls,” went on old Bill, cracking his 
whip. “Miss Majesty, it ’ll be some oninterestin’ ride all 
mawnin’. But when we get up a bit you’ll sure like it. 
There! Look to the southwest, jest over thet farthest 
ridge.” 

Madeline swept her gaze along the gray, sloping horizon- 
line to where dark-blue spires rose far beyond the ridge. 

“Peloncillo Motmtains,” said Stillwell. J.‘TheFs home, 


A RIDE 


47 

when we get there. We won’t see no more of them till after- 
noon, when they rise up sudden-like.” 

Peloncillo! Madeline murmured the melodious name. 
Where had she heard it? Then she remembered. The 
cowboy Stewart had told the little Mexican girl Bonita 
to “hit the Peloncillo trail.” Probably the girl had rid- 
den the big, dark horse over this very road at night, 
alone. Madeline had a little shiver that was not occa- 
sioned by the cold wind. 

“There’s a jack!” cried Florence, suddenly. 

Madeline saw her first jack-rabbit. It was as large 
as a dog, and its ears were enormous. It appeared to be 
impudently tame, and the horses kicked dust over it as 
they trotted by. From then on old Bill and Florence 
vied with each other in calling Madeline’s attention to 
many things along the way. Coyotes stealing away into 
the brush; buzzards flapping over the carcass of a cow 
that had been mired in a wash; queer little lizards run- 
ning swiftly across the road; cattle grazing in the hollows; 
adobe huts of Mexican herders; wild, shaggy horses, with 
heads high, watching from the gray ridges — all these 
things Madeline looked at, indifferently at first, because 
indifference had become habitual with her, and then 'with 
an interest that flourished up and insensibly grew as she 
rode on. It grew until sight of a little ragged Mexican 
boy astride the most diminutive burro she had ever seen 
awakened her to the truth. She became conscious of 
faint, unmistakable awakening of long-dead feelings — 
enthusiasm and delight. When she realized that, she 
breathed deep of the cold, sharp air and experienced an 
inward joy. And she divined then, though she did not 
know why, that henceforth there was to be something 
new in her life, something she had never felt before, some- 
thing good for her soul in the homely, the commonplace, 
the natural, and the wild. 

Meanwhile, as Madeline gazed about her and listened 
to her companions, the sun rose higher and grew warm 
and soared and grew hot; the horses held tirelessly to 


48 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

their steady trot, and mile after mile of rolling land 
slipped by. 

From the top of a ridge Madeline saw doTO into a hol- 
low where a few of the cowboys had stopped and were 
sitting round a fire, evidently busy at the noonday meal. 
Their horses were feeding on the long, gray grass. 

“Wal, smell of thet bumin’ greasewood makes my 
mouth water,” said Stillwell. “I’m sme hungry. We’ll 
noon hyar an’ let the bosses rest. It’s a long pull to the 
ranch.” 

He halted near the camp-fire, and, clambering down, 
began to unharness the team. Florence leaped out and 
turned to help Madeline. 

“Walk round a little,” she said. “You must be cramped 
from sitting still so long. I’ll get lunch ready.” 

Madeline got dowm, glad to stretch her limbs, and be- 
gan to stroll about. She heard Stillwell throw the har- 
ness on the ground and slap his horses. “Roll, you sons- 
of-guns!” he said. Both horses bent their fore legs, heaved 
down on their sides, and tried to roll over. One horse 
succeeded on the fourth try, and then heaved up with a 
satisfied snort and shook off the dust and gravel. The 
other one failed to roll over, and gave it up, half rose to 
his feet, and then lay down on the other side. 

“He’s sure going to feel the ground,” said Florence, 
smiling at Madeline. “Miss Hammond, I suppose that 
prize horse of yours — White Stockings — would spoil his 
coat if he were heah to roll in this greasewood and 
cactus.” 

During lunch-time Madeline observed that she was an 
object of manifestly great interest to the three cowboys. 
She returned the compliment, and was amused to see that 
a glance their way caused them painful embarrassment. 
They were grown men — one of whom had white hair — 
yet they acted like boys caught in the act of stealing a 
forbidden look at a pretty girl. 

“Cowboys are sure all flirts,” said Florence, as if stating 
an uninteresting fact. But Madeline detected a merry 


A RIDE 


49 


twinkle in her clear eyes. The cowboys heard, and the 
effect upon them was magical. They fell to shamed con- 
fusion and to hurried useless tasks. Madeline found it 
difficult to see where they had been bold, though evi- 
dently they were stricken with conscious guilt. She re- 
called appraising looks of critical English eyes, impudent 
French stares, btiming Spanish glances — gantlets which 
any American girl had to run abroad. Compared with for- 
eign eyes the eyes of these cowboys were those of smiling, 
eager babies. 

“Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell. “Florence, you jest hit 
the nail on the haid. Cowboys are all plumb flirts. I 
was wonderin’ why them boys nooned hyar. This ain’t 
no place to noon. Ain’t no grazin’ or wood wuth bumin’^ 
or nuthin’. Them boys jest held up, throwed the packs, 
an’ waited fer us. It ain’t so surprisin’ fer Booly an’ Ned 
— they’re young an’ coltish — but Nels there, why, he’s old 
enough to be the paw of both you girls. It sure is amazin’ 
strange.” 

A silence ensued. The white-haired cowboy, Nels, 
fussed aimlessly over the camp-fire, and then straight- 
ened up with a very red face. 

“Bill, you’re a dog-gone liar,” he said. “I reckon I 
won’t stand to be classed with Booly an’ Ned. There 
ain’t no cowboy on this range thet’s more appreciatin’ of 
the ladies than me, but I shore ain’t ridin’ out of my way. 
I reckon I hev enough ridin’ to do. Now, Bill, if you’ve 
sich dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin’ on the 
way out?” 

“Nels, I hevn’t seen nothin’,” he replied, bluntly. 
His levity disappeared, and the red wrinkles narrowed 
round his searching eyes. 

“Jest take a squint at these hoss tracks,” said Nels, and 
he drew Stillwell a few paces aside and pointed to large 
hoof prints in the dust. “I reckon you know the hoss 
thet made them?” 

“ Gene Stewart’s roan, or I’m a son-of-a-gun !” exclaimed 
Stillwell, and he dropped heavily to his knees and began 


so THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

% 

to scrutinize the tracks. “My eyes are sure pore; but, 
Nels, they ain’t fresh.” 

“I reckon them tracks was made early yesterday 
momin’.” 

“Wal, what if they was?” Stillwell looked at his cow- 
boy. “It’s sure as thet red nose of youm Gene wasn’t 
ridin’ the roan.” 

“Who’s sayin’ he was? Bill, it’s more ’n your eyes 
thet’s gettin’ old. Jest foller them tracks. Come on.” 

Stillwell walked slowly, with his head bent, muttering 
to himself. Some thirty paces or more from the camp- 
fire he stopped short and again flopped to his knees. 
Then he crawled about, evidently examining horse tracks. 

“Nels, whoever was straddlin’ Stewart’s hoss met 
somebody. An’ they hauled up a bit, but didn’t git down.” 

“Tolerable good for you. Bill, thet reasonin’,” replied 
the cowboy. 

Stillwell presently got up and walked swifdy to the 
left for some rods, halted, and faced toward the south- 
west, then retraced his steps. He looked at the imper- 
turbable cowboy. 

“Nels, I don’t like this a little,” he growled. “Them 
tracks make straight fer the Peloncillo trail.” 

“Shore,” replied Nels. 

“Wal?” went on Stillwell, impatiently. 

“I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?” 

“I’m thinkin’ hard, but I ain’t sure.” 

“It was Danny Mains ’s bronc.” 

“How do you know thet?” demanded Stillwell, sharply. 

“Bill, the left front foot of thet little hoss always wears 
a shoe thet sets crooked. Any of the boys can tell you. 
I’d know thet track if I was blind.” 

Stillwell’s ruddy face clouded and he kicked at a cactus 
plant. 

“Was Danny cornin’ or goin’?” he asked. 

“I reckon he was hittin’ across country fer the Pelon- 
cillo trail. But I ain’t shore of thet without back-trailin’ 
him a ways. I was jest waitin’ fer you to come up.” 


A RIDE 


SI 

“Nels, you don’t think the boy’s sloped with thet little 
hussy, Bonita?” 

“Bill, he shore was sweet on Bonita, same as Gene was, 
an’ Ed Linton before he got engaged, an’ all the boys. 
She’s shore chain-lightnin’, that little black-eyed devil. 
Danny might hev sloped with her all right. Danny was 
held up on the way to town, an’ then in the shame of it 
he got drunk. But he’ll show up soon.” 

“Wal, mebbe you an’ the boys are right. I believe 
you are. Nels, there ain’t no doubt on earth about who 
was ridin’ Stewart’s hoss?” 

“Thet’s as plain as the boss’s tracks.” 

“Wal, it’s all amazin’ strange. It beats me. I wish 
the boys would ease up on drinkin’. I was pretty fond~ 
of Danny an’ Gene. I’m afraid Gene’s done fer, sure. 
If he crosses the border where he can fight it won’t take 
long fer him to get plugged. I guess I’m gettin’ old. I 
don’t stand things like I used to.” 

“Bill, 1 reckon I’d better hit the Peloncillo trail. 
Mebbe I can find Danny.” 

“I reckon you had, Nels,” replied Stillwell. “But don’t 
take more ’n a couple of days. We can’t do much on the 
round-up without you. I’m short of boys.” 

That ended the Conversation. Stillwell immediately 
began to hitch up his team, and the cowboys went out 
to fetch their strayed horses. Madeline had been curi- 
ously interested, and she saw that Florence knew it. 

“Things happen. Miss Hammond,” she said, soberly, 
almost sadly. 

Madeline thought. And then straightway Florence be- 
gan brightly to hum a tune and to busy herself repacking 
what was left of the lunch. Madeline suddenly conceived 
a strong liking and respect for this Western girl. She 
admired the consideration or delicacy or wisdom — what- 
ever it was — which kept Florence from asking hen what 
she knew or thought or felt about the events that had 
taken place. 

Soon they were once more bowling along the road down 


52 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

a gradual incline, and then they began to climb a long 
ridge that had for hours hidden what lay beyond. That 
climb was rather tiresome, owing to the sun and the dust 
and the restricted view. 

When they reached the summit Madeline gave a little 
gasp of pleasure. A deep, gray, smooth valley opened 
below and sloped up on the other side in little ridges like 
waves, and these led to the foothills, dotted with clumps 
of brush or trees, and beyond rose dark mountains, pine- 
fringed and crag-spired. 

“Wal, Miss Majesty, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” 
said Stillwell, cracking his whip. “Ten miles across this 
valley an’ we’ll be in the foothills where the Apaches used 
to run.” 

“Ten miles!” exclaimed Madeline. “It looks no more 
than half a mile to me.” 

“Wal, young woman, before you go to ridin’ off alone 
you want to get your eyes corrected to Western distance. 
Now, what ’d you call them black things off there on the 
slope?” 

“Horsemen. No, cattle,” replied Madeline, doubtfully. 

“Nope. Jest plain, every-day cactus. An’ over hyar — 
look down the valley. Somethin’ of a pretty forest, ain’t 
thet?” he asked, pointing. 

Madeline saw a beautiful forest in the center of the 
valley toward the south. 

“Wal, Miss Majesty, thet’s jest this deceivin’ air. 
There’s no forest. It’s a mirage.” 

“Indeed! How beautiful it is!” Madeline strained 
her gaze on the dark blot, and it seemed to float in the 
atmosphere, to have no clearly defined margins, to waver 
and shimmer, and then it faded and vanished. 

The mountains dropped down again behind the hori- 
zon, and presently the road began once more to slope up. 
The horses slowed to a walk. There was a mile of rolling 
ridge, and then came the foothills. The road ascended 
through winding valleys. Trees and brush and rocks 
began to appear in the dry ravines. There was no water. 


A RIDE 


S 3 


yet all along the sand}^ washes were indications of floods 
at some periods. The heat and the dust stifled Madeline, 
and she had already become tired. Still she looked with 
all her eyes and saw birds, and beautiful quail with crests, 
and rabbits, and once she saw a deer. 

“Miss Majesty,” said Stillwell, “in the early day^ the 
Indians made this country a bad one to live in. I reckon 
you never heerd much about them times. Surely you 
was hardly bom then. I’ll hev to tell you some day how 
I fought Comanches in the Panhandle — thet was north- 
ern Texas — an’ I had some mighty hair-raisin’ scares in 
this country with Apaches.” 

He told her about Cochise, chief of the Chiricahua” 
Apaches, the most savage and bloodthirsty tribe that 
ever made life a horror for the pioneer. Cochise befriended 
the whites once; but he was the victim of that friendli- 
ness, and he became the most implacable of foes. Then, 
Geronimo, another Apache chief, had, as late as 1885, 
gone on the war-path, and had left a bloody trail down 
the New Mexico and Arizona line almost to the border. 
Lone ranchmen and cowboys had been killed, and mothers 
had shot their children and then themselves at the ap- 
proach of the Apache. The name Apache curdled the 
blood of any woman of the Southwest in those days. 

Madeline shuddered, and was glad when the old fron- 
tiersman changed the subject and began to talk of the 
settling of that country by the Spaniards, the legends of 
lost gold-mines handed down to the Mexicans, and strange 
stories of heroism and mystery and religion. The Mexi- 
cans had not advanced much in spite of the spread of 
civilization to the Southwest. They were still supersti- 
tious, and believed the legends of treasures hidden in the 
walls of their missions, and that unseen hands rolled 
rocks down the gullies upon the heads of prospectors who 
dared to hunt for the lost mines of the padres. 

“Up in the mountains back of my ranch there’s a lost 
mine,” said Stillwell. “Mebbe it’s only a legend. But 
somehow I believe it’s there. Other lost mines hev been 


54 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

found. An’ as fer the rollin’ stones, I sure know thet’s 
true, as any one can find out if he goes trailin’ up the 
gulch. Mebbe thet’s only the weatherin’ of the cliffs. 
It’s a sleepy, strange country, this Southwest, an’. Miss 
Majesty, you’re a-goin’ to love it. You’ll call it ro-mantic. 
Wal, I reckon ro-mantic is correct. A feller gets lazy 
out hyar an’ dreamy, an’ he wants to put off work till 
to-morrow. Some folks say it’s a land of manana — a land 
of to-morrow. Thet’s the Mexican of it. 

“But I like best to think of what a lady said to me 
onct — an eddicated lady like you. Miss Majesty. Wal, 
she said it’s a land where it’s always afternoon. I liked 
thet. I always get up sore in the mawnin’s, an’ don’t 
feel good till noon. But in the afternoon I get sorta warm 
an’ like things. An’ sunset is my time. I reckon I don’t 
want nothin’ any finer than sunset from my ranch. You 
look out over a valley that spreads wide between Guada- 
lupe Mountains an’ the Chiricahuas, down across the 
red Arizona desert clear to the Sierra Madres in Mexico. 
Two hundred miles, Miss Majesty! An’ all as clear as 
print! An’ the sun sets behind all thet! When my time 
comes to die I’d like it to be on my porch smokin’ my 
pipe an’ facin’ the west.” 

So the old cattleman talked on while Madeline listened, 
and Florence dozed in her seat, and the sun began to wane, 
and the horses climbed steadily. Presently, at the foot 
of the steep ascent, Stillwell got out and walked, leading 
the team. During this long climb fatigue claimed Made- 
line, and she drowsily closed her eyes, to find when she 
opened them again that the glaring white sky had changed 
to a steel-blue. The sun had sunk behind the foothills 
and the air was growing chilly. Stillwell had returned to 
the driving-seat and was chuckling to the horses. Shadows 
crept up out of the hollows. 

“Wal, Flo,” said Stillwell, “I reckon we’d better hev 
the rest of thet there lunch before dark.” 

“You didn’t leave much of it,” laughed Florence, as 
she produced the basket from under the seat. 


A RIDE 


S5 

While they ate, the short twilight shaded and gloom 
filled the hollows. Madeline saw the first star, a faint, 
winking point of light. The sky had now changed to a 
hazy gray. Madeline saw it gradually clear and darken, 
to show other faint stars. After that there was percepti- 
ble deepening of the gray and an enlarging of the stars 
and a brightening of new-born ones. Night seemed to 
come on the cold wind. Madeline was glad to have the 
robes close around her and to lean against Florence. 
The hollows were now black, but the tops of the foothills 
gleamed pale in a soft light. The steady tramp of the 
horses went on, and the creak of wheels and crunching of 
gravel. Madeline grew so sleepy that she could not keep-, 
her weary eyelids from falling. There were drowsier 
spells in which she lost a feeling of where she was, and 
these were disturbed by the jolt of wheels over a rough 
place. Then came a blank interval, short or long, which 
ended in a more violent lurch of the buckboard. Made- 
line awoke to find her head on Florence’s shoulder. She 
sat up laughing and apologizing for her laziness. Florence 
assured her they would soon reach the ranch. 

Madeline observed then that the horses were once more 
trotting. The wind was colder, the night darker, the foot- 
hills flatter. And the sky was now a wonderful deep 
velvet-blue blazing with millions of stars. Some of them 
were magnificent. How strangely white and alive! Again 
Madeline felt the insistence of familiar yet baffling asso- 
ciations. These white stars called strangely to her or 
haunted her. 


THE ROUND-UP 


I T was a crackling and roaring of fire that awakened 
Madeline next morning, and the first thing she saw 
was a huge stone fireplace in which lay a bundle of blazing 
sticks. Some one had kindled a fire while she slept. For 
a moment the curious sensation of being lost returned to 
her. She just dimly remembered reaching the ranch and 
being taken into a huge house and a huge, dimly lighted 
room. And it seemed to her that she had gone to sleep 
at once, and had awakened without remembering how she 
had gotten to bed. 

But she was wide awake in an instant. The bed stood 
near one end of an enormous chamber. The adobe walls 
resembled a hall in an ancient feudal castle, stone-floored, 
stone-walled, with great darkened rafters running across 
the ceiling. The few articles of fumitme were worn out 
and sadly dilapidated. Light flooded into the room from 
two windows on the right of the fireplace and two on the 
left, and another large window near the bedstead. ;^ook- 
ing out from where she lay, Madeline saw a dark, slow 
up-sweep of mountain. Her eyes returned to the cheery, 
snapping fire, and she watched it while gathering cour- 
age to get up. The room was cold. When she did slip 
her bare feet out upon the stone floor she very quickly 
put them back imder the warm blankets. And she was 
still in bed trying to pluck up her courage when, with a 
knock on the door and a cheerful greeting, Florenejk en- 
tered, carrying steaming hot water. ^ 

“Good mawnin’. Miss Hammond. Hope you slept 
well. You sure were tired last night. I imagine you’ll 


THE ROUND-UP 


57 


find this old rancno house as cold as a bam. It ’ll warm 
up directly. Al’s gone with the boys and Bill. We’re 
to ride down on the range after a while when your bag- 
gage comes.” 

Florence wore a woolen blouse with a scarf round her 
neck, a short corduroy divided sldrt, and boots; and while 
she talked she energetically heaped up the burning wood 
in the fireplace, and laid Madeline’s clothes at the foot of 
the bed, and heated a mg and put that on the floor by 
the bedside. And lastly, with a sweet, direct smile, she 
said: 

‘‘Al told me — and I sure saw myself — that you weren’t 
used to being without your maid. Will you let me help 
you?” 

“ Thank you, I am going to be my own maid for a while. 
I expect I do appear a very helpless individual, but really 
I do not feel so. Perhaps I have had just a little too much 
waiting on.” 

“All right. Breakfast will be ready soon, and after 
that we’ll look about the place.” 

Madeline was charmed with the old Spanish house, 
and the more she saw of it the more she thought what a 
delightful home it could be made. All the doors opened 
into a courtyard, or patio, as Florence called it. The 
house was low, in the shape of a rectangle, and so im- 
mense in size that Madeline wondered if it had been a 
Spanish barracks. Many of the rooms were dark, with- 
out windows, and they were empty. Others were full of 
ranchers’ implements and sacks of grain and bales of hay. 
Florence called these last alfalfa. The house itself ap- 
peared strong and well preserved, and it was very pictu- 
resque. But in the living-rooms were only the barest 
necessities, and these were worn out and comfortless. 

However, when Madeline went outdoors she forgot the 
cheedess, bare interior. Florence led the way out on a 
porch and waved a hand at a vast, colored void. “That’s 
what Bill likes,” she said. 

At first Madeline could not tell what was sky and what 


58 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

was land. The immensity of the scene stunned her facul- 
ties of conception. She sat down in one of the old rocking- 
chairs and looked and looked, and knew that she was not 
grasping the reality of what stretched wondrously before 
her. 

We’re up at the edge of the foothills,” Florence said. 
“You remember we rode around the northern end of the 
mountain range? Well, that’s behind us now, and you 
look down across the line into Arizona and Mexico. That 
long slope of gray is the head of the San Bernardino 
Valley. Straight across you see the black Chiricahua 
Moimtains, and away down to the south the Guadalupe 
Mountains. That awful red gulf between is the desert, 
and far, far beyond the dim, blue peaks are the Sierra 
Madres in Mexico.” 

Madeline listened and gazed with straining eyes, and 
wondered if this was only a stupendous mirage, and why 
it seemed so different from all else that she had seen, and 
so endless, so baffling, so grand. 

“It ’ll sure take you a little while to get used to being 
up high and seeing so much,” explained Florence. “That’s 
the secret — we’re up high, the air is clear, and there’s the 
whole bare world beneath us. Don’t it somehow rest 
you? Well, it will. Now see those specks in the valley. 
They are stations, little towns. The railroad goes down 
that way. The largest speck is Chiricahua. It’s over 
forty miles by trail. Here round to the north you can 
see Don Carlos’s rancho. He’s fifteen miles off, and I 
sure wish he were a thousand. That little green square 
about half-way between here and Don Carlos — that’s Al’s 
ranch. Just below us are the adobe houses of the Mexi- 
cans. There’s a church, too. And here to the left you 
see Stillwell’s corrals and bunk-houses and his stables all 
falling to pieces. The ranch has gone to ruin. All the 
ranches are going to ruin. But most of them are little 
one-horse affairs. And here — see that cloud of dust 
down in the valley? It’s the round-up. The boys are 
there, and the cattle. Wait, I’ll get the glasses.” 


THE ROUND-UP 


59 


By their aid Madeline saw in the foreground a great, 
dense herd of cattle with dark, thick streams and dotted 
lines of cattle leading in every direction. She saw streaks 
and clouds of dust, running horses, and a band of horses 
grazing; and she descried horsemen standing still like sen- 
tinels, and others in action. 

“The round-up! I want to know all about it — to see 
it,” declared Madeline. “Please tell me what it means, 
what it’s for, and then take me down there.” 

“It’s sure a sight. Miss Hammond. I’ll be glad to 
take you down, but I fancy you’ll not want to go close. 
Few Eastern people who regularly eat their choice cuts 
of roast beef and porterhouse have any idea of the open 
range and the struggle cattle have to live and the hard 
life of cowboys. It ’ll sure open your eyes. Miss Ham- 
mond. I’m glad you care to know. Your brother would 
have made a big success in this cattle business if it hadn’t 
been for crooked work by rival ranchers. He’ll make it 
yet, in spite of them.” 

“Indeed he shall,” replied* Madeline. “But tell me, 
please, all about the round-up.” 

“Well, in the first place, every cattleman has to have 
a brand to identify his stock. Without it no cattleman, 
nor half a hundred cowboys, if he had so many, could ever 
recognize all the cattle in a big herd. There are no fences 
on our ranges. They are all open to everybody. Some 
day I hope we’ll be rich enough to fence a range. The 
different herds graze together. Every calf has to be 
caught, if possible, and branded with the mark of its 
mother. That’s no easy job. A maverick is an un- 
branded calf that has been weaned and shifts for itself. 
The maverick then belongs to the man who finds it and 
brands it. These little calves that lose their mothers sure 
have a cruel time of it. Many of them die. Then the 
coyotes and wolves and lions prey on them. Every year we 
have two big round-ups, but the boys do some branding all 
the year. A calf should be branded as soon as it’s foimd. 
This is a safeguard against cattle-thieves. We don’t 


6o THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


have the rustling of herds and bunches of cattle like we 
used to. But there’s always the calf-thief, and always 
will be as long as there’s cattle-raising. The thieves have 
a good many cunning tricks. They kill the calf’s mother 
or slit the calf’s tongue so it can’t suck and so loses its 
mother. They steal and hide a calf and watch it till it’s 
big enough to fare for itself, and then brand it. They 
make imperfect brands and finish them at a later time. 

“We have our big round-up in the fall, when there’s 
plenty of gras^ and water, and all the riding-stock as well 
as the cattle are in fine shape. The cattlemen in the val- 
ley meet with their cowboys and drive in all the cattle 
they can find. Then they brand and cut out each man’s 
herd and drive it toward home. Then they go on up or 
down the valley, make another camp, and drive in more 
cattle. It takes weeks. There are so many Greasers 
with little bands of stock, and they are crafty and greedy. 
Bill says he knows Greaser cowboys, vaqtieros, who never 
owned a steer or a cow, and now they’ve got growing herds. 
The same might be said of more than one white cowboy. 
But there’s not as much of that as there used to be.” 

“And the horses? I want to know about them,” said 
Madeline, when Florence paused. 

“Oh, the cow-ponies! Well, they sure are interesting. 
Broncos, the boys call them. Wild I they’re wdlder than 
the steers they have to chase. Bill’s got broncos heah 
that never have been broken and never will be. And not 
every boy can ride them, either. The vaqueros have the 
finest horses. Don Carlos has a black that I’d give any- 
thing to own. And he has other fine stock. Gene 
Stewart’s big roan is a Mexican horse, the swiftest and 
proudest I ever saw. I was up on him once and — oh, he 
can run! He likes a woman, too, and that’s sure some- 
thing I want in a horse. I heard A1 and Bill talking at 
breakfast about a horse for 3 ^ou. They were wrangling. 
Bill wanted 3 ^ou to have one, and A1 another. It was 
funny to hear them. Finally they left the choice to me, 
until the round-up is over. Then I suppose every cow- 


THE ROUND-UP 


6i 


boy on the range will offer you his best mount. Come, 
let’s go out to the corrals and look over the few horses 
left.” 

For Madeline the morning hours flew by, with a goodly 
part of the time spent on the porch gazing out over that 
ever-changing vista. At noon a teamster drove up with 
her trunks. Then while Florence helped the Mexican 
woman get Itmch Madeline unpacked part of her effects 
and got out things for which she would have immediate 
need. After lunch she changed her dress for a riding- 
habit and, going outside, found Florence waiting with 
the horses. 

The Western girl’s clear eyes seemed to take stock of 
Madeline’s appearance in one swift, inquisitive glance 
and then shone with pleasure. 

“You sure look — you’re a picture. Miss Hammond. 
That riding-outfit is a new one. What it ’d look like on 
me or another woman I can’t imagine, but on you it’s — 
it’s stimning. Bill won’t let you go within a mile of the 
cowboys. If they see you that ’ll be the finish of the 
roimd-up.” 

While they rode down the slope Florence talked about 
the open ranges of New Mexico and Arizona. 

“Water is scarce,” she said. “If Bill could afford to 
pipe water down from the moimtains he’d have the finest 
ranch in the valley.” 

She went on to tell that the climate was mild in winter 
and hot in summer. Warm, sunshiny days prevailed 
nearly all the year rotmd. Some summers it rained, and 
occasionally there would be a dry year, the dreaded ano 
seco of the Mexicans. Rain was always expected and 
prayed for in the midsummer months, and when it came 
the grama-grass sprang up, making the valleys green 
from mountain to mountain. The intersecting valleys, 
ranging between the long slope of foothills, afforded the 
best pasture for cattle, and these were jealously sought 
by the Mexicans who had only small herds to look after. 
Stillwell’s cowboys were always chasing these vaqueros 


62 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


off land that belonged to Stillwell. He owned twenty 
thousand acres of mifenced land adjoining the open 
range. Don Carlos possessed more acreage than that, 
and his cattle were always mingling with Stillwell’s. 
And in turn Don Carlos’s vaguer os were always chasing 
Stillwell’s cattle away from the Mexican’s watering-place. 
Bad feeling had been manifested for years, and now rela- 
tions were strained to the breaking-point. 

As Madeline rode along she made good use of her ej^es. 
The soil was sandy and porous, and she understood why 
the rain and water from the few springs disappeared so 
quickly. At a little distance the grama-grass appeared 
thick, but near at hand it was seen to be sparse. Bunches 
of greasewood and cactus plants were interspersed here 
and there in the grass. What surprised Madeline was 
the fact that, though she and Florence had seemed to be 
riding quite awhile, they had apparently not drawn any 
closer to the round-up. The slope of the valley was 
noticeable only after some miles had been traversed. 
Looking forward, Madeline imagined the valley only a few 
miles wide. She would have been sure she could walk 
her horse across it in an hour. Yet that black, bold range 
of Chiricahua Mountains was distant a long day’s journey 
for even a hard-riding cowboy. It was only by looking 
back that Madeline could grasp the true relation of things; 
she could not be deceived by distance she had covered. 

Gradually the black dots enlarged and assumed shape 
of cattle and horses moving round a great dusty patch. 
In another half-hour Madeline rode behind Florence to 
the outskirts of the scene of action. They drew rein near 
a huge wagon in the neighborhood of which were more 
than a hundred horses grazing and whistling and trot- 
ting about and lifting heads to watch the new-comers. 
Four cowboys stood mounted guard over this drove of 
horses. Perhaps a quarter of a mile farther out was a 
dusty m^l^e. . A roar of tramping hoofs filled Madeline’s 
ears. The lines of marching cattle had merged into a 
great, moving herd half obscured by dust. 


THE ROUND-UP 63 

“I can make little of what is going on,” said Madeline. 
“I want to go closer.” 

They trotted across half the intervening distance, and 
when Florence halted again Madeline was still not satis- 
fied and asked to be taken nearer. This time, before 
they reined in again, A 1 Hammond saw them and wheeled 
his horse in their direction. He yelled something which 
Madeline did not understand, and then halted them. 

‘‘Close enough,” he called; and in the din his voice 
was not very clear. “It’s not safe. Wild steers! I’m 
glad you came, girls. Majesty, what do you think of 
that bunch of cattle?” 

Madeline could scarcely reply what she thought, for 
the noise and dust and ceaseless action confused her. 

“They’re milling, Al,” said Florence. 

“We just rounded them up. They’re milling, and that’s 
bad. The vaqueros are hard drivers. They beat us all 
hollow, and we drove some, too.” He was wet with sweat, 
black with dust, and out of breath. “I’m off now. Flo, 
my sister will have enough of this in about two minutes. 
Take her back to the wagon. I’ll tell Bill you’re here, 
and run in whenever I get a minute.” 

The bawling and bellowing, the crackling of horns and 
pounding of hoofs, the dusty whirl of cattle, and the flying 
cowboys disconcerted Madeline and frightened her a 
little; but she was intensely interested and meant to stay 
there until she saw for herself what that strife of sound 
and action meant. When she tried to take in the whole 
scene she did not make out an5rthing clearly and she 
determined to see it little by little. ^ 

“'V^ill you stay longer?” asked Florence; and, receiving 
an affirmative reply, she warned Madeline : “ If a runaway 
steer or angry cow comes this way let your horse go. He’ll 
get out of the way.” 

That lent the situation excitement, and Madeline be- 
came absorbed. The great mass of cattle seemed to be 
edd5dng like a whirlpool, and from that Madeline under- 
stood the significance of the range word “milling.” But 


64 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

when Madeline looked at one end of the herd she saw 
cattle standing still, facing outward, and calves cringing 
close in fear. The motion of the cattle slowed from the 
inside of the herd to the outside and gradually ceased. 
The roar and tramp of hoofs and crack of horns and thump 
of heads also ceased in degree, but the bawling and bellow- 
ing continued. While she watched, the herd spread, grew 
less dense, and stragglers appeared to be about to bolt 
through the line of mounted cowboys. 

From that moment so many things happened, and so 
swiftly, that Madeline could not see a tenth of what was 
going on within eyesight. It seemed horsemen darted 
into the herd and drove out cattle. Madeline pinned her 
gaze on one cowboy who rode a white horse and was 
chasing a steer. He whirled a lasso around his head and 
threw it; the rope streaked out and the loop caught the 
leg of the steer. The white horse stopped with wonder- 
ful suddenness, and the vSteer slid in the dust. Quick as 
a flash the cowboy was out of the saddle, and, grasping the 
legs of the steer before it could rise, he tied them with a 
rope. It had all been done almost as quickly as thought. 
Another man came with what Madeline divined was a 
branding-iron. He applied it to the flank of the steer. 
Then it seemed the steer was up with a jump, wildly 
looking for some way to run, and the cowboy was circling 
his lasso. Madeline saw fires in the background, with a 
man in charge, evidently heating the irons. Then this 
same cowboy roped a heifer which bawled lustily when 
the hot iron seared its hide. Madeline saw the smoke 
rising from the touch of the iron, and the sight made her 
shrink and want to turn away, but she resolutely fought 
her sensitiveness. She had never been able to bear the 
sight of any animal suffering. The rough work in men’s 
lives was as a sealed book to her; and now, for some reason 
beyond her knowledge, she wanted to see and hear and 
learn some of the every-day duties that made up those lives. 

“Look, Miss Hammond, there’s Don Carlos!’’ said 
Florence. “Look at that black horse!’’ 


THE ROUND-UP 


6S 

Madeleine saw a dark-faced Mexican riding by. He 
was tcx) far away for her to distinguish his features, but he 
reminded her of an Italian brigand. He bestode a mag- 
nificent horse. 

Stillwell rode up to the girls then and greeted them in 
his big voice. 

“Right in the thick of it, hey? Wal, thet’s sure fine. 
I’m glad to see. Miss Majesty, thet you ain’t afraid of a 
little dust or smell of biunin’ hide an’ hair.” 

“Couldn’t you brand the calves without hurting them?” 
asked Madeline. 

“Haw, haw! Why, they ain’t hurt none. They jest 
bawl for their mammas. Sometimes, though, we hev to 
hurt one jest to find which is his mamma.” 

“I want to know how you tell what brand to put on 
those calves that are separated from their mothers,” 
asked Madeline. 

“Thet’s decided by the round-up bosses. I’ve one 
boss an’ Don Carlos has one. They decide ever5rthing, 
an’ they hev to be obyed. There’s Nick Steele, my 
boss. Watch him! He’s ridin ’ a bay in among the cattle 
there. He orders the calves an’ steers to be cut out. 
Then the cowboys do the cuttin’ out an’ the brandin’. 
We try to divide up the mavericks as near as possible.” 

At this juncture Madeline’s brother joined the group, 
evidently in search of Stillwell. 

“Bill, Nels just rode in,” he said. 

“Good! We sure need him. Any news of Danny 
Mains?” 

“No. Nels said he lost the trail when he got on hard 
ground.” 

“Wal, wal. Say, Al, your sister is sure talcin’ to the 
round-up. An’ the boys are gettin’ wise. See thet sun- 
of-a-gun Ambrose cuttin’ capers all around. He’ll sure 
do his prettiest. Ambrose is a ladies’ man, he thinks.” 

The two men and Florence joined in a little pleasant 
teasing of Madeline, and drew her attention to what 
appeared to be really unnecessary feats of horsemanship 


66 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


all made in her vicinity. The cowboys evinced their in- 
terest in covert glances while recoiling a lasso or while 
passing to and fro. It was all too serious for Madeline 
to be amused at that moment. She did not care to talk. 
She sat her horse and watched. 

The lithe, dark vaqueros fascinated her. They were 
here, there, ever3rwhere, with lariats flying, horses plung- 
ing back, jerking calves and yearlings to the grass. They 
were cruel to their mounts, cruel to their cattle. Made- 
line winced as the great silver rowels of the spurs went 
plowing into the flanks of their horses. She saw these 
spurs stained with blood, choked with hair. She saw the 
mqueros break the legs of calves and let them lie till a 
white cowboy came along and shot them. Calves were 
jerked down and dragged man}^ yards ; steers were pulled 
by one leg. These vaqueros were the most superb horse- 
men Madeline had ever seen, and she had seen the Cos- 
sacks and Tatars of the Russian steppes. They were 
swift, graceful, daring; they never failed to catch a run- 
ning steer, and the lassoes always went true. What 
sharp dashes the horses made, and wheelings here and 
there, and sudden stops, and how they braced themselves 
to withstand the shock! 

The cowboys, likewise, showed wonderful horsemanship, 
and, reckless as they were, Madeline imagined she saw 
consideration for steed and cattle that was wanting in 
the vaqueros. They changed mounts oftener than the 
Mexican riders, and the horses they unsaddled for fresh 
ones were not so spent, so wet, so covered with lather. 
It was only after an hour or more of observation that 
Madeline began to realize the exceedingly toilsome and 
dangerous work cowboys had to perform. There was 
little or no rest for them. They were continually among 
wild and vicious and wide-homed steers. In many in- 
stances they owed their lives to their horses. The danger 
came mostly when the cowboy leaped off to tie and brand 
a calf he had thrown. Some of the cows charged with 
lowered, twisting horns. Time and again Madeline’s 


THE ROUND-^UP 


67 

heart leaped to her throat for fear a man would be gored. 
One cowboy roped a calf that bawled loudly. Its mother 
dashed in and just missed the kneeling cowboy as he 
rolled over. Then he had to run, and he could not run 
very fast. He was bow-legged and appeared awkward. 
Madeline saw another cowboy thrown and nearly run 
over b}?- a plunging steer. His horse bolted as if it in- 
tended to leave the range. Then close by Madeline a big 
steer went down at the end of a lasso. The cowboy who 
had thrown it nimbly jumped down, and at that moment 
his horse began to rear and prance and suddenly to lower 
his head close to the ground and kick high. He ran round 
in a circle, the fallen steer on the taut lasso acting as a 
pivot. The cowboy loosed the rope from the steer, and 
then was dragged about on the grass. It was almost 
frightful for Madeline to see that cowboy go at his horse. 
But she recognized the mastery and skill. Then two 
horses came into collision on the run. One horse went 
down ; the rider of the other was unseated and was kicked 
before he could get up. This fellow limped to his motmt 
and struck at him, while the horse showed his teeth in a 
vicious attempt to bite. 

All the while this ceaseless activity was going on there 
v/as a strange uproar — bawl and bellow, the shock of 
heavy bodies meeting and falling, the shrill jabbering of 
the vaqueros, and the shouts and banterings of the cow- 
boys. They took sharp orders and replied in jest. They 
went about this stem toil as if it were a game to be played 
in good humor. One sang a rollicking song, another 
whistled, another smoked a cigarette. The sun was hot, 
and they, like their horses, were dripping with sweat. 
The characteristic red faces had taken on so much dust 
that cowboys could not be distinguished from vaqueros 
except by the difference in dress. Blood was not wanting 
on tireless hands. The air was thick, oppressive, rank 
with the smell of cattle and of burning hide. 

Madeline began to sicken. She choked with dust, was 
almost stifled by the odor. But that made her all the 


68 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


more determined to stay there. Florence urged her to 
come away, or at least move back out of the worst of it. 
Stillwell seconded Florence. Madeline, however, smil- 
ingly refused. Then. her brother said: ‘‘Here, this is 
making you sick. You’re pale.” And she replied that 
she intended to stay until the day’s work ended. A1 gave 
her a strange look, and made no more comment. The 
kindly Stillwell then began to talk. 

“Miss Majesty, you’re seein’ the life of the cattleman 
an’ cowboy — the real thing — same as it was in the early 
days. The ranchers in Texas an’ some in Arizona hev 
took on style, new-fangled idees thet are good, an’ I wish 
we could follow them. But we’ve got to stick to the old- 
fashioned, open-range round-up. It looks cruel to you, 
I can see thet. Wal, mebbe so, mebbe so. Them 
Greasers are cruel, thet’s certain. Fer thet matter, I 
never seen a Greaser who wasn’t cruel. But I reckon 
all the strenuous work you’ve seen to-day ain’t any tougher 
than most any day of a cowboy’s life. Long hours on 
hossback, poor grub, sleepin’ on the ground, lonesome 
watches, dust an’ sun an’ wind an’ thirst, day in an’ day 
out all the year round — thet’s what a cowboy has. 

“Look at Nels there. See, what little hair he has is 
snow-white. He’s red an’ thin an’ hard — burned up. 
You notice thet hump of his shoulders. An’ his hands, 
when he gets close — ^jest take a peep at his hands. Nels 
can’t pick up a pin. He can’t hardly button his shirt or 
untie a knot in his rope. He looks sixty years — an old 
man. Wal, Nels ’ain’t seen forty. He’s a young man, 
but he’s seen a lifetime fer every year. Miss Majesty, 
it was Arizona thet made Nels what he is, the Arizona 
desert an’ the work of a cowman. He’s seen ridin’ at 
Canon Diablo an’ the Verdi an’ Tonto Basin. He knows 
every mile of Aravaipa Valley an’ the Pinaleno country. 
He’s ranged from Tombstone to Douglas. He hed shot 
bad white men an’ bad Greasers before he was twenty- 
one. He’s seen some life, Nels has. My sixty years ain’t 
nothin’; my early days in the Staked Plains an’ on the 




THE ROUND-UP 


69 

border with Apaches ain’t nothin’ to what Nels has seen 
an’ lived through. He’s just come to be part of the 
desert; you might say he’s stone an’ fire an’ silence an’ 
cactus an’ force. He’s a man, Miss Majesty, a wonder- 
ful man. Rough he’ll seem to you. Wal, I’ll show you 
pieces of quartz from the mountains back of my ranch 
an’ they’re thet rough they’d cut your hands. But 
there’s pure gold in them. An’ so it is with Nels an’ 
many of these cowboys. 

“An’ there’s Price — Monty Price. Monty stands fer 
Montana, where he hails from. Take a good look at 
him, Miss Majesty. He’s been hurt, I reckon. Thet 
accounts fer him bein’ without hoss or rope; an’ thet 
limp. Wal, he’s been ripped a little. It’s sure rare an’ 
seldom thet a cowboy gets foul of one of them thousands 
of sharp horns; but it does happen.” 

Madeline saw a very short, wizened little man, ludi- 
crously bow-legged, with a face the color and hardness 
of a bumed-out cinder. He was hobbling by toward the 
wagon, and one of his short, crooked legs dragged. 

“ Not much to look at, is he?” went on Stillwell. “Wal, 
I know it’s natural thet we’re all best pleased by good 
looks in any one, even a man. It hedn’t ought to be 
thet way. Monty Price looks like hell. But appear- 
ances are sure deceivin’. Monty saw years of ridin’ along 
the Missouri bottoms, the big prairies, where there’s high 
grass an’ sometimes fires. In Montana they have blizzards 
that freeze cattle standin’ in their tracks. An’ bosses 
freeze to death. They tell me thet a drivin’ sleet in the 
face with the mercury forty below is somethin’ to ride 
against. You can’t get Monty to say much about cold. 
All you hev to do is to watch him, how he himts the sun. 
It never gets too hot fer Monty. Wal, I reckon he was a 
little more prepossessin’ once. The story thet come to us 
about Monty is this: He got caught out in a prairie fire 
an’ could hev saved himself easy, but there was a lone 
ranch right in the line of fire, an’ Monty knowed the 
rancher was away, an’ his wife an’ baby was home. He 


70 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

knowed, too, the way the wind was, thet the ranch-house 
would birni. It was a long chance he was takin’. But 
he went over, put the woman up behind him, wrapped the 
baby an’ his boss’s haid in a wet blanket, an’ rode away. 
Thet was sure some ride, I’ve heerd. But the fire ketched 
Monty at the last. The woman fell an’ was lost, an’ then 
his hoss. An’ Monty ran an’ walked an’ crawled through 
the fire with thet baby, an’ he saved it. Monty was never 
much good as a cowboy after thet. He couldn’t hold no 
jobs. Wal, he’U have one with me as long as I have a 
steer left.” 


71 


VI 

A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 

F or a week the scene of the round-up lay within rid- 
ing-distance of the ranch-house, and Madeline passed 
most of this time in the saddle, watching the strenuous 
labors of the vaqmros and cowboys. She overestimated 
her strength, and more than once had to be lifted from 
her horse. Stillwell’s pleasure in her attendance gave 
place to concern. He tried to persuade her to stay away 
from the round-up, and Florence grew even more solicitous. 
Madeline, however, was not moved by their entreaties. 
She grasped only dimly the truth of what it was she was 
learning — something inWtely more than the rounding 
up of cattle by cowboys, and she was loath to lose an 
hour of her opportunity. 

Her brother looked out for her as much as his duties 
permitted; but for several days he never once mentioned 
her growing fatigue and the strain of excitement, or sug- 
gested that she had better go back to the house with 
Florence. Many times she felt the drawing power of his 
keen blue eyes on her face. And at these moments she 
sensed more than brotherly regard. He was watching 
her, studying her, weighing her, and the conviction was 
vaguely disturbing. It was disquieting for Madeline to 
think that Alfred might have guessed her trouble. From 
time to time he brought cowboys to her and introduced 
them, and laughed and jested, trying to make the ordeal 
less embarrassing for these men so little used to women. 

Before the week was out, however, Alfred found oc- 
casion to tell her that it would be wiser for her to let the 


72 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

round-up go on without gracing it further with her pres- 
ence. He said it laughingly; nevertheless, he was serious. 
And when Madeline turned to him in surprise he said, 
bluntly : 

don’t like the way Don Carlos follows you around. 
Bill’s afraid that Nels or Ambrose or one of the cowboys 
will take a fall out of the Mexican. They’re itching for 
the chance. Of comrse, dear, it’s absurd to you, but it’s 
true.” 

Absurd it certainly was, yet it served to show Madeline 
how intensely occupied she had been with her own feel- 
ings, roused by the tiunult and toil of the round-up. She 
recalled that Don Qarlos had been presented to her, and 
that she had not liked his dark, striking face with its bold, 
prominent, glittering eyes and sinister lines; and she had 
not liked his suave, sweet, insinuating voice or his subtle 
manner, with its slow bows and gestures. She had thought 
he looked handsome and dashing on the magnificent black 
horse. However, now that Alfred’s words made her 
think, she recalled that wherever she had been in the 
field the noble horse, with his silver-mounted saddle and 
his dark rider, had been always in her vicinity. 

“Don Carlos has been after Florence for a long time,” 
said Alfred. “He’s not a young man by any means. 
He’s fifty, Bill says; but you can seldom tell a Mexican’s 
age from his looks. Don Carlos is well educated and a 
man we know very little about. Mexicans of his stamp 
don’t regard women as we white men do. Now, my dear, 
beautiful sister from New York, I haven’t much use for 
Don Carlos; but I don’t want Nels or Ambrose to make 
a wild throw with a rope and pull the Don off his horse. 
So you had better ride up to the house and stay there.” 

“Alfred, you are joldng, teasing me,” said Madeline. 

“Indeed not,” replied Alfred. “How about it, Flo?” 

Florence replied that the cowboys would upon the 
slightest provocation treat Don Carlos with less ceremony 
and gentleness than a roped steer. Old Bill Stillwell came 
up to be importuned by Alfred regarding the conduct of 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 


73 


cowboys on occasion, and he not only corroborated the 
assertion, but added emphasis and evidence of his own. 

“An’, Miss Majesty,” he concluded, “I reckon if Gene 
Stewart was ridin’ fer me, thet grinnin’ Greaser would hev 
hed a biunp in the dust before now.” 

Madeline had been wavering between sobriety and 
laughter until Stillwell’s mention of his ideal of cowboy 
chivalry decided in favor of the laughter. 

“I am not convinced, but I surrender,” she said. “You 
have only some occult motive for driving me away. I 
am sure that handsome Don Carlos is being unjustly sus- 
pected. But as I have seen a little of cowboys’ singular 
imagination and gallantry, I am rather inclined to fear 
their possibilities. So good-by.” 

Then she rode with Florence up the long, gray slope to 
the ranch-house. That night she suffered from excessive 
weariness, which she attributed more to the strange work- 
ing of her mind than to riding and sitting her horse. Morn- 
ing, however, found her in no disposition to rest. It was 
not activity that she craved, or excitement, or pleasure. 
An unerring instinct, rising clear from the thronging 
sensations of the last few days, told her that she had 
missed something in life. It could not have been love, 
for she loved brother, sister, parents, friends; it could not 
have been consideration for the poor, the unfortunate, 
the helpless; she had expressed her sympathy for these 
by giving freely; it could not have been pleasure, culture, 
travel, society, wealth, position, fame, for these had been 
hers all her life. Whatever this something was, she had 
baffling intimations of it, hopes that faded on the verge 
of realizations, haunting promises that were unfulfilled. 
Whatever it was, it had remained hidden and unknown 
at home, and here in the West it began to allure and drive 
her to discovery. Therefore she could not rest; she wanted 
to go and see; she was no longer chasing phantoms; it 
was a hunt for treasure that held aloof, as intangible as 
the substance of dreams. 

That morning she spoke a desire to visit the Mexican 


74 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

quarters lying at the base of the foothills. Florence pro- 
tested that this was no place to take Madeline. But Made- 
line insisted, and it required only a few words and a per- 
suading smile to win Florence over. 

Ffom the porch the cluster of adobe houses added a 
picturesque touch of color and contrast to the waste of 
gray valley. Near at hand they proved the enchantment 
lent by distance. They were old, cnimbling, broken down, 
squalid. A few goats climbed around upon them; a few 
mangy dogs barked announcement of visitors ; and then 
a troop of half-naked, dirty, ragged children ran out. 
They were very shy, and at first retreated in affright. 
But kind words and smiles gained their confidence, and 
then they followed in a body, gathering a quota of new 
children at each house. Madeline at once conceived the 
idea of doing something to better the condition of these 
poor Mexicans, and with this in mind she decided to 
have a look indoors. She fancied she might have been 
an apparition, judging from the effect her presence had 
upon the first woman she encountered. While Florence 
exercised what little Spanish she had command of, trying 
to get the women to talk, Madeline looked about the miser- 
able little rooms. And there grew upon her a feeling of 
sickness, which increased as she passed from one house to 
another. She had not believed such squalor could exist 
anywhere in America. The huts reeked with filth; ver- 
min crawled over the dirt floors. There was absolutely 
no evidence of water, and she believed what Florence told 
her — that these people never bathed. There was little 
evidence of labor. Idle men and women smoking ciga- 
rettes lolled about, some silent, others jabbering. They 
did not resent the visit of the American women, nor did 
they show hospitality. They appeared stupid. Disease 
was rampant in these houses; when the doors were shut 
there was no ventilation, and even with the doors open 
Madeline felt choked and stifled. A powerful penetrat- 
ing odor pervaded the rooms that were less stifling than 
others, and this odor Florence explained came from a 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 


75 

liquor the Mexicans distilled from a cactus plant. Here 
drunkenness was manifest, a terrible inert drunkenness 
that made its victims deathlike. 

Madeline could not extend her visit to the little mis- 
sion-house. She saw a padre, a starved, sad-faced man 
who, she instinctively felt, was good. She managed to 
mount her horse and ride up to the house; but, once there, 
she weakened and Florence had almost to carry her in- 
doors. She fought off a faintness, only to succumb to it 
when alone in her room. Still, she did not entirely lose 
consciousness, and soon recovered to the extent that she 
did not require assistance. 

Upon the morning after the end of the round-up, 
when she went out on the porch, her brother and Still- 
well appeared to be arguing about the identity of a 
horse. 

“ Wal, I reckon it’s my old roan,” said Stillwell, shading 
his eyes with his hand. 

“Bill, if that isn’t Stewart’s horse my eyes are going 
back on me,” replied Al. “It’s not the color or shape — 
the distance is too far to judge by that. It’s the motion 
— the swing.” 

“Al, mebbe you’re right. But they ain’t no rider up 
on thet hoss. Flo, fetch my glass.” 

Florence went into the house, while Madeline tried to 
discover the object of attention. Presently far up the 
gray hollow along a foothill she saw dust, and then the 
dark, moving figure of a horse. She was watching when 
Florence returned with the glass. Bill took a long look, 
adjusted the glasses carefully, and tried again. 

“Wal, I hate to admit my eyes are gettin’ pore. But 
I guess I’ll hev to. Thet’s Gene Stewart’s hoss, saddled, 
an’ cornin’ at a fast clip without a rider. It’s amazin’ 
strange, an’ some in keepin’ with other things concernin’ 
Gene.” 

“Give me the glass,” said Al. “Yes, I was right. 
Bill, the horse is not frightened. He’s coming steadily; 
he’s got something on his mind.” 


76 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Thet’s a trained boss, Al. He has more sense than 
some men I know. Take a look with the glasses up the 
hollow. See anybody.?” 

“No.” 

“Swing up over the foothills — where the trail leads. 
Higher — along thet ridge where the rocks begin. See 
anybody?” 

“By Jove! Bill — two horses! But I can’t make out 
much for dust. They are climbing fast. One horse gone 
among the rocks. There — the other’s gone. What do 
you make of that?” 

“Wal, I can’t make no more ’n you. But I’ll bet we 
know somethin’ soon, fer Gene’s hoss is cornin’ faster as 
he nears the ranch.” 

The wide hollow sloping up into the foothills lay open 
to imobstructed view, and less than half a mile distant 
Madeline saw the riderless horse coming along the white 
trail at a rapid canter. She watched him, recalling the 
circumstances under which she had first seen him, and 
then his wild flight through the dimly lighted streets of 
El Cajon out into the black night. She thrilled again 
and believed she would never think of that starry night’s 
adventure without a thrill. She watched the horse 
and felt more than curiosity. A shrill, piercing whistle 
pealed in. 

“Wal, he’s seen us, thet’s sure,” said Bill. 

The horse neared the corrals, disappeared into a lane, 
and then, breaking his gait again, thimdered into the in- 
closure and pounded to a halt some twenty yards from 
where Stillwell waited for him. 

One look at him at close range in the clear light of day 
was enough for Madeline to award him a blue ribbon over 
all horses, even her prize-winner. White Stockings. The 
cowboy’s great steed was no lithe, slender-bodied mustang. 
He was a charger, almost tremendous of build, with a 
black coat faintly mottled in gray, and it shone like 
polished glass in the sun. Evidently he had been care- 
fully dressed down for this occasion, for there was no dust 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 


77 

on him, nor a kink in his beautiful mane, nor a mark on 
his glossy hide. 

“Come hyar, you son-of-a-gun," said Stillwell. 

The horse dropped his head, snorted, and came obedi- 
ently up. He was neither shy nor wild. He poked a 
friendly nose at Stillwell, and then looked at A1 and the 
women. Unhooking the stirrups from the pommel, Still- 
well let them fall and began to search the saddle for 
something which he evidently expected to find. Pres- 
ently from somewhere among the trappings he produced 
a folded bit of paper, and after scrutinizing it handed 
it to Al. 

“Addressed to you; an’ I’ll bet you two bits I know 
what’s in it,” he said. 

Alfred unfolded the letter, read it, and then looked at 
Stillwell. 

“Bill, you’re a pretty good guesser. Gene’s made for 
the border. He sent the horse by somebody, no names 
mentioned, and wants my sister to have him if she will 
accept.” 

“Any mention of Danny Mains?” asked the rancher. 

“Not a word.” 

“Thet’s bad. Gene ’d know about Danny if anybody 
did. But he’s a close-mouthed cuss. So he’s sure hittin’ 
for Mexico. Wonder if Danny’s goin’, too? Wal, there’s 
two of the best cowmen I ever seen gone to hell, an’ I’m 
sorry.” 

With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to him- 
self, went into the house. Alfred lifted the reins over the 
head of the horse and, leading him to Madeline, slipped 
the knot over her arm and placed the letter in her hand. 

“Majesty, I’d accept the horse,” he said. “Stewart is 
only a cowboy now, and as tough as any I’ve known. But 
he comes of a good family. He was a college man and a 
gentleman once. He went to the bad out here, like so 
many fellows go, like I nearly did. Then he had told me 
about his sister and mother. He cared a good deal for 
them. I think he has been a source of unhappiness to 


78 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

them. It was mostly when he was reminded of this in 
some way that he’d get drunk; I have always stuck to 
him, and I would do so yet if I had the chance. You can 
see Bill is heartbroken about Danny Mains and Stewart. 
I think he rather hoped to get good news. There’s not 
much chance of them coming back now, at least not in 
the case of Stewart. This giving up his horse means he’s 
going to join the rebel forces across the border. What 
wouldn’t I give to see that cowboy break loose on a bunch 
of Greasers! Oh, damn the luck! I beg your pardon, 
Majesty. But I’m upset, too. I’m sorry about Stewart. 
I liked him pretty well before he. thrashed that coyote 
of a sheriff, Pat Hawe, and afterward I guess I liked 
him more. You read the letter, sister, and accept the 
horse.” 

In silence Madeline bent her gaze from her brother’s 
face to the letter: 

Friend Al, — I’ m sending my horse down to you because I’m 
going away and haven’t the nerve to take him where he’d get 
hurt or fall into strange hands. 

If you think it’s aU right, why, give him to yoiu* sister with 
my respects. But if you don’t like the idea, Al, or if she won’t 
have him, then he’s for you. I’m not forgetting your kindness 
to me, even if I never showed it. And, Al, my horse has never 
felt a quirt or a spur, and I’d like to think you’d never hurt him. 
I’m hoping your sister will take him. She’ll be good to him, 
and she can afford to take care of him. And, while I’m waiting 
to be plugged by a Greaser bullet, if I happen to have a picture 
in mind of how she’ll look upon my horse, why, man, it’s not 
going to make any difference to you. She needn’t ever know it. 

Between you and me, Al, don’t let her or Flo ride alone over 
Don Carlos’s way. If I had time I could tell you something 
about that slick Greaser. And tell your sister, if there’s ever 
any reason for her to nm away from anybody when she’s up 
on that roan, just let her lean over and yell in his ear. She’ll 
find herself riding the wind. So long. 

Gene Stewart. 

Madeline thoughtfully folded the letter and murmured, 
‘‘How he must love his horse!” 


79 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 

“Well, I should say so,’' replied Alfred. ‘‘Flo will tell 
you. She’s the only person Gene ever let ride that horse, 
unless, as Bill iminks, the little Mexican girl, Bonita, rode 
him out of El Cajon the other night. Well, sister mine, 
how about it — will you accept the horse?” 

“Assuredly. And very happy indeed am I to get him. 
Al, you said, I think, that Mr. Stewart named him after 
me — saw my nickname in the New York paper?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I will not change his name. But, Al, how shall 
I ever climb up on him? He’s taller than I am. What 
a giant of a horse ! Oh, look at him — he’s nosing my hand. 
I really believe he understood what I said. Al, did you 
ever see such a splendid head and such beautiful eyes? 
They are so large and dark and soft — and human. Oh, I 
am a fickle woman, for I am forgetting White Stockings.” 

“I’ll gamble he’ll make you forget any other horse,” 
said Alfred. “You’ll have to get on him from the porch.” 

As Madeline was not dressed for the saddle, she did not 
attenipt to mount. 

“Come, Majesty — how strange that sounds! — we must 
get acquainted. You have now a new owner, a very severe 
young woman who will demand loyalty from you and 
obedience, and some day, after a decent period, she will 
expect love.” 

Madeline led the horse to and fro, and was delighted 
with his gentleness. She discovered that he did not need 
to be led. He came at her call, followed her like a pet 
dog, rubbed his black muzzle against her. Sometimes, 
at the turns in their walk, he lifted his head and with ears 
forward looked up the trail by which he had come, and 
beyond the foothills. He was looking over the range. 
Some one was calling to him, perhaps, from beyond the 
mountains. Madeline liked him the better for that 
memory, and pitied the wayward cowboy who had parted 
with his only possession for very love of it. 

That afternoon when Alfred lifted Madeline to the back 
of the big roan she felt high in the air. 


8o THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


“We’ll have a run out to the mesa,” said her brother, 
as he mounted. “Keep a tight rein on him, and ease up 
when you want him to go faster. But don’t yell in his 
ear unless you want Florence and me to see you disappear 
on the horizon.” 

He trotted out of the yard, down by the corrals, to 
come out on the edge of a gray, open flat that stretched 
several miles to the slope of a mesa. Florence led, and 
Madeline saw that she rode like a cowboy. Alfred drew 
on to her side, leaving Madeline in the rear. Then the 
leading horses broke into a gallop. They granted to run, 
and Madeline felt with a thrill that she would hardly be 
able to keep Majesty from running, even if she wanted to. 
He sawed on the tight bridle as the others drew away 
and broke from pace to gallop. Then Florence put her 
horse into a run. Alfred turned and called to Madeline 
to come along. 

“This will never do. They are running away from 
us,” said Madeline, and she eased up her hold on the 
bridle. Something happened beneath her just then ; 
she did not know at first exactly what. As much as she 
had been on horseback she had never ridden at a running 
gait. In New York it was not decorous or safe. So 
when Majesty lowered and stretched and changed the 
stiff, jolting gallop for a wonderful, smooth, gliding run 
it required Madeline some moments to realize what was 
happening. It did not take long for her to see the dis- 
tance diminishing between her and her companions. 
Still they had gotten a goodly start and were far advanced. 
She felt the steady, even rush of the wind. It amazed 
her to find how easily, comfortably she kept to the saddle. 
The experience was new. The one fault she had hereto- 
fore found with riding was the violent shaking-up. In 
this instance she experienced nothing of that kind, no 
strain, no necessity to hold on with a desperate aware- 
ness of work. She had never felt the wind in her face, 
the whip of a horse’s mane, the buoyant, level spring of a 
running gait. It thrilled her, exhilarated her, fired her 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 


8i 


blood. Suddenly she found herself alive, throbbing; and, 
inspired by she knew not what, she loosened the bridle 
and, leaning far forward, she cried, '‘Oh. you splendid 
fellow, run!” 

She heard from under her a sudden quick clattering 
roar of hoofs, and she swayed back with the wonderfully 
swift increase in Majesty’s speed. The wind stung her 
face, howled in her ears, tore at her hair. The gray plain 
swept by on each side, and in front seemed to be waving 
toward her. In her blurred sight Florence and Alfred 
appeared to be coming back. But she saw presently, 
upon nearer view, that Majesty was overhauling the other 
horses, was going to pass them. Indeed, he did pass 
them, shooting by so as almost to make them appear 
standing still. And he ran on, not breaking his gait till 
he reached the steep side of the mesa, where he slowed 
down and stopped. 

“Glorious!” exclaimed Madeline. She was all in a 
blaze, and every muscle and nerve of her body tingled and 
quivered. Her hands, as she endeavored to put up the 
loosened strands of hair, trembled and failed of their ac- 
customed dexterity. Then she faced about and waited 
for her companions. 

Alfred reached her first, laughing, delighted, yet also 
a little anxious. 

“Holy smoke! But can’t he run? Did he bolt on you?” 

“No, I called in his ear,” replied Madeline. 

“So that was it. That’s the woman of you, and for- 
bidden fruit. Flo said she’d do it the minute she was on 
him. Majesty, you can ride. See if Flo doesn’t say so.” 

The Western girl came up then with her pleasure bright 
in her face. 

“It was just great to see you. How your hair burned 
in the wind! Al, she sure can ride. Oh, I’m so glad! 
I was a little afraid. And that horse! Isn’t he grand? 
Can’t he run?” 

Alfred led the way up the steep, zigzag trail to the top 
of the mesa. Madeline saw a beautiful flat surface of 


82 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

short grass, level as a floor. She uttered a little cry of 
wonder and enthusiasm. 

“Al, what a place for golf! This would be the finest 
links in the world.” 

“Well, Fve thought of that myself,” he replied. “The 
only trouble would be — could anybody stop looking at the 
scenery long enough to hit a ball? Majesty, look!” 

And then it seemed that Madeline was confronted by a 
spectacle too sublime and terrible for her gaze. The im- 
mensity of this red-ridged, deep-gulfed world descending 
by incalculable distances refused to be grasped, and awed 
her, shocked her. 

“ Once, Majesty, when I first came out West, I was down 
and out — determined to end it all,” said Alfred. “And 
I happened to climb up here looking for a lonely place 
to die. When I saw that I changed my mind.” 

Madeline was silent. She remained so during the ride 
around the rim of the mesa and down the steep trail. 
This time Alfred and Florence failed to tempt her into a 
race. She had been awe-struck; she had, been exalted^ 
she had been confounded; and she recovered slowly 
without divining exactly what had come to her. 

She reached the ranch-house far behind her compan- 
ions, and at supper-time was unusually thoughtful. Later, 
when they assembled on the porch to watch the sunset, 
Stillwell’s humorous complainings inspired the inception 
of an idea which flashed up in her mind swift as lightning. 
And then by listening sympathetically she encouraged 
him to recite the troubles of a poor cattleman. They 
were many and long and interesting, and rather numb- 
ing to the life of her inspired idea. 

“Mr. Stillwell, could ranching here on a large scale, 
with up-to-date methods, be made — well, not profitable, 
exactly, but to pay — to run without loss?” she asked, 
determined to kill her new-born idea at birth or else give 
it breath and hope of life. 

“Wal, I reckon it could,” he replied, with a short 
laugh. “It’d sure be a money-maker. Why, with all 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 


83 

my bad luck an’ poor equipment IVe lived pretty well 
an’ paid my debts an’ haven’t really lost any money 
except the original outlay. I reckon thet’s sunk fer good. ’ ’ 

“Would you sell — if some one would pay your price?” 

“Miss Majesty, I’d jump at the chance. Yet some- 
how I’d hate to leave hyar. I’d jest be fool enough to 
go sink the money in another ranch.” 

“Would Don Carlos and these other Mexicans sell?” 

“They sure would. The Don has been after me fer 
years, wantin’ to sell thet old rancho of his; an’ these 
herders in the valley with their stray cattle, they’d fall 
daid at sight of a little money.” 

“Please tell me, Mr. Stillwell, exactly what you would 
do here if you had unlimited means?” went on Madeline. 

“Good Lud!” ejaculated the rancher, and started so 
he dropped his pipe. Then with his clumsy huge fingers 
he refilled it, relighted it, took a few long pulls, puffed 
great clouds of smoke, and, squaring round, hands on his 
knees, he looked at Madeline with piercing intentness. 
His hard face began to relax and soften and wrinkle into 
a smile. 

“ Wal, Miss Majesty, it jest makes my old heart warm 
up to think of sich a thing. I dreamed a lot when I first 
come hyar. What would I do if I hed unlimited money ? 
Listen. I’d buy out Don Carlos an’ the Greasers. I’d 
give a job to every good cowman in this country. I’d 
make them prosper as I prospered myself. I’d buy all 
the good horses on the ranges. I’d fence twenty thousand 
acres of the best grazin’. I’d drill fer water in the valley. 
I’d pipe water down from the mountains. I’d dam up 
that draw out there. A mile-long dam from hill to hill 
would give me a big lake, an’ hevin’ an eye fer beauty, 
I’d plant cottonwoods arotmd it. I’d fill that lake full of 
fish. I’d put in the biggest field of alfalfa in the South- 
west. I’d plant fruit-trees an’ garden. I’d tear down 
them old corrals an’ bams an’ bunk-houses to build new 
ones. I’d make this old rancho some comfortable an’ 
fine. I’d put in grass an’ flowers all around an’ bring 


84 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

young pine-trees down from the mountains. An* when 
all thet was done I’d sit in my chair an’ smoke an’ watch 
the cattle stringin* in fer water an’ stragglin’ back into 
the valley. An’ I see the cowboys ridin’ easy an’ heah 
them singin’ in their bunks. An’ thet red sun out there 
wouldn’t set on a happier man in the world than Bill 
Stillwell, last of the old cattlemen.” 

Madeline thanked the rancher, and then rather abruptly 
retired to her room, where she felt no restraint to hide 
the force of that wonderful idea, now full-grown and 
tenacious and alluring. 

Upon the next day, late in the afternoon, she asked 
Alfred if it would be safe for her to ride out to the 
mesa. 

“I’ll go with you,” he said, gaily. 

“Dear fellow, I want to go alone,” she replied. 

“Ah!” Alfred exclaimed, suddenly serious. He gave 
her just a quick glance, then turned away. “Go ahead. 
I think it’s safe. I’ll make it safe by sitting here with my 
glass and keeping an eye on you. Be careful coming down 
the trail. Let the horse pick his way. That’s all.” 

She rode Majesty across the wide flat, up the zigzag 
trail, across the beautiful grassy level to the far rim of 
the mesa, and not till then did she lift her eyes to face 
the southwest. 

Madeline looked from the gray valley at her feet to 
the blue Sierra Madres, gold-tipped in the setting sun. 
Her vision embraced in that glance distance and depth 
and glory hitherto unrevealed to her. The gray valley 
sloped and widened to the black sentinel Chiricahuas, 
and beyond was lost in a vast corrugated sweep of earth, 
reddening down to the west, where a golden blaze lifted 
the dark, rugged mountains into bold relief. The scene 
had infinite beauty. But after Madeline’s first swift, 
all-embracing flash of enraptured eyes, thought of beauty 
passed away. In that darkening desert there was some- 
tliing illimitable. Madeline saw the hollow of a stupen- 
dous hand; she felt a mighty hold upon her heart. Out 


A GIFT AND A PURCHASE 


85 

of the endless space, out of silence and desolation and 
mystery and age, came slow-changing colored shadows, 
phantoms of peace, and they whispered to Madeline. 
They whispered that it was a great, grim, immutable 
earth; that time was eternity; that life was fleeting. 
They whispered for her to be a woman; to love some one 
before it was too late; to love any one, every one; to 
realize the need of work, and in doing it to find happiness. 

She rode back across the mesa and down the trail, and, 
once more upon the flat, she called to the horse and made 
him run. His spirit seemed to race with hers. The 
wind of his speed blew her hair from its fastenings. When 
he thundered to a halt at the porch steps Madeline, breath- 
less and disheveled, alighted with the mass of her hair 
tumbling around her. 

Alfred met her, and his exclamation, and Florence’s 
rapt eyes shining on her face, and Stillwell’s speechlessness 
made her self-conscious. Laughing, she tri^ to put up 
the mass of hair. 

“I must — look a — fright,” she pant sd. 

“Wal, you can say what you like,” replied the old 
cattleman, “but I know what I think.” 

Madeline strove to attain calmness. 

“My hat — and my combs — went on the wind. I 
thought — my hair would go, too. . . . There is the even- 
ing star. ... I think I am very himgry.” 

And then she gave up trying to be calm, and likewise 
to fasten up her hair, which fell again in a golden mass. 

“Mr. Stillwell,” she began, and paused, strangely aware 
of a hurried note, a deeper ring in her voice. “Mr. Stillwell, 
I want to buy your ranch — to engage you as my superin- 
tendent. I want to biy Don Carlos’s ranch and other 
property to the extent, say, of fifty thousand acres. I 
want you to buy horses and cattle — in short, to make all 
those improvements which you said you had so long 
dreamed of. Then I have ideas of my own, in the de- 
velopment of which I must have your advice and Alfred’s. 
I intend to better the condition of those poor Mexicans 


86 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

in the valley. I intend to make life a little more worth 
living for them and for the cowboys of this range. To- 
morrow we shall talk it all over, plan all the business 
details.” 

Madeline turned from the huge, ever-widening smile 
that beamed down upon her and held out her hands to 
her brother. 

“Alfred, strange, is it not, my coming out to you? 
Nay, don’t smile. I hope I have found myself — ^my work, 
my happiness — here under the light of that western 
star.” 


87 


VII 

HER majesty’s RANCHO 

F ive months brought all that Stillwell had dreamed 
of, and so many more changes and improvements 
and innovations that it was as if a magic touch had trans- 
formed the old ranch. Madeline and Alfred and Florence 
had talked over a fitting name, and had decided on one 
chosen by Madeline. But this instance was the only one 
in the course of developments in which Madeline’s wishes 
were not complied with. The cowboys named the new 
ranch “Her Majesty’s Rancho.” Stillwell said the names 
cowboys bestowed were felicitous, and as unchangeable 
as the everlasting hills; Florence went over to the enemy; 
and Alfred, laughing at Madeline’s protest, declared the 
cowboys had elected he-^ queen of the ranges, and that 
there was no help for ii. So the name stood “Her Maj- 
esty’s Rancho.” 

The April sun shone down upon a slow-rising green 
knoll that nestled in the lee of the foothills, and seemed 
to center bright rays upon the long ranch-house, which 
gleamed snow-white from the level summit. The grounds 
around the house bore no semblance to Eastern lawns or 
parks; there had been no landscape-gardening; Stillwell 
had just brought water and grass and flowers and plants 
to the knoll-top, and there had left them, as it were, to 
follow nature. His idea may have been crude, but the 
result was beautiful. Under that hot sun and balmy 
air, with cool water daily soaking into the rich soil, a green 
covering sprang into life, and everywhere upon it, as if 
by magic, many colored flowers rose in the sweet air. 
Pale wild flowers, lavender daisies, fragile bluebells, white 
four-petaled lilies, lilce Eastern mayflowers, and golden 


88 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


poppies, deep sunset gold, color of the West, bloomed in 
happy confusion. California roses, crimson as blood, 
nodded heavy heads and trembled with the weight of 
bees. Low down in bare places, isolated, open to the full 
power of the sun, blazed the vermilion and magenta blos- 
soms of cactus plants. 

Green slopes led all the way down to where new adobe 
bams and sheds had been erected, and wide corrals 
stretched high-barred fences down to the great squares 
of alfalfa gently inclining to the gray of the valley. The 
bottom of a dammed-up hollow shone brightly with its 
slowly increasing acreage of water, upon which thousands 
of migratory wild-fowl whirred and splashed and squawked, 
as if reluctant to leave this cool, wet surprise so new in 
the long desert journey to the northland. Quarters for 
the cowboys — comfortable, roomy adobe houses that not 
even the lamest cowboy dared designate as crampy bunks 
— stood in a row upon a long bench of ground above the 
lake. And down to the edge of the valley the cluster of 
Mexican habitations and the little church showed the 
touch of the same renewing hand. 

All that had been left, of the old Spanish house which 
had been Stillwell’s home for so long was the bare, mas- 
sive structure, and some of this had been cut away for 
new doors and windows. Every modem convenience, 
even to hot and cold mnning water and acetylene light, 
had been installed; and the whole interior painted and 
carpentered and furnished. The ideal sought had not 
been luxury, but comfort. Every door into the patio 
looked out upon dark, rich grass and sweet-faced flowers, 
and every window looked down the green slopes. 

Madeline’s rooms occupied the west end of the building 
and comprised four in number, all opening out upon the 
long porch. There was a small room for her maid, an- 
other which she used as an office, then her sleeping-apart- 
ment; and, lastly, the great light chamber which she had 
liked so well upon first sight, and which now, simply yet 


HER MAJESTTS RANCHO 89 

beautifully furnished and containing her favorite books 
and pictures, she had come to love as she had never loved 
any room at home. In the morning the fragrant, balmy 
air blew the white curtains of the open windows ; at noon 
the drowsy, sultry quiet seemed to creep in for the siesta 
that was characteristic of the country; in the afternoon 
the westering sun peeped under the porch roof and 
painted the walls with gold bars that slowly changed 
to red. 

Madeline Hammond cherished a fancy that the trans- 
formation she had wrought in the old Spanish house and 
in the people with whom she had surrounded herself, 
great as that transformation had been, was as nothing 
compared to the one wrought in herself. She had found 
an object in life. She was busy, she worked with her 
hands as well as mind, yet she seemed to have more time 
to read and think and study and idle and dream than 
ever before. She had seen her brother through his diffi- 
culties, on the road to all the success and prosperity that 
he cared for. Madeline had been a conscientious student 
of ranching and an apt pupil of Stillwell. The old cattle- 
man, in his simplicity, gave her the place in his heart 
that was meant for the daughter he had never had. His 
pride in her, Madeline thought, was beyond reason or be- 
lief or words to tell. Under his guidance,, sometimes ac- 
companied by Alfred and Florence, Made^ne had ridden 
the ranges and had studied the life and work of the cow- 
boys. She had camped on the open rSnge, slept under 
the blinking stars, ridden forty miles a day in the face of 
dust and wind. She had taken two wonderful trips down 
into the desert — one trip to Chiricahua, and from there 
across the waste of sand and rock and alkali and cactus 
to the Mexican border-line; and the other through the 
Aravaipa Valley, with its deep, red-walled canons and 
wild fastnesses. 

This breaking-in, this training into Western ways, 
though she had been a so-called outdoor girl, had required 
great effort and severe pain; but the education, now past 


90 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

its primary grades, had become a labor of love. She had 
perfect health, abounding spirits. She was so active 
that she had to train herself into taking the midday 
siesta, a custom of the country and imperative during the 
hot summer months. Sometimes she looked in her mir- 
ror and laughed with sheer joy at sight of the lithe, au- 
dacious, brown-faced, flashing-eyed creature reflected 
there. It was not so much joy in her beauty as sheer 
joy of life. Eastern critics had been wont to call her 
beautiful in those days when she had been pale and slender 
and proud and cold. She laughed. If they could only 
see her now! From the tip of her golden head to her feet 
she was alive, pulsating, on Are. 

Sometimes she thought of her parents, sister, friends, 
of how they had persistently refused to believe she could 
or would stay in the West. They were always asking her 
to come home. And when she wrote, which was dutifully 
often, the last thing under the sun that she was likely 
to mention was the change in her. She wrote that she 
would return to her old home some time, of course, for 
a visit; and letters such as this brought returns that 
amused Madeline, sometimes saddened her. She meant 
to go back East for a while, and after that once or twice 
every year. But the initiative was a difficult step from 
which she shrank. Once home, she would have to make 
explanations, and these would not be understood. Her 
father’s business had been such that he could not leave 
it for the time required for a Western trip, or else, accord- 
ing to his letter, he would have come for her. Mrs. Ham- 
mond could not have been driven to cross the Hudson 
River; her un-American idea of the wilderness westward 
was that Indians still chased buffalo on the outskirts of 
Chicago. Madeline’s sister Helen had long been eager 
to come, as much from curiosity, Madeline thought, as 
from sisterly regard. And at length Madeline concluded 
that the proof of her breaking permanent ties might better 
be seen by visiting relatives and friends before she went 
back East. With that in mind she invited Helen to visit 


HER MAJESTY’S RANCHO 91 

her during the summer, and bring as many friends as 
she liked. 

No slight task indeed was it to oversee the many busi- 
ness details of Her Majesty’s Rancho and to keep a record 
of them. Madeline found the course of business training 
upon which her father had insisted to be invaluable to 
her now. It helped her to assimilate and arrange the 
practical details of cattle-raising as put forth by the blunt 
Stillwell. She split up the great stock of cattle into dif- 
ferent herds, and when any of these were out running 
upon the open range she had them closely watched. Part 
of the time each herd was kept in an inclosed range, 
fed and watered, and carefully handled by a big force 
of cowboys. She employed three cowboy scouts whose 
sole duty was to ride the ranges searching for stray, sick, 
or crippled cattle or motherless calves, and to bring these 
in to be treated and nursed. There were two cowboys 
whose business was to master a pack of Russian stag- 
hounds and to hunt down the coyotes, wolves, and lions 
that preyed upon the herds. The better and tamer milch 
cows were separated from the ranging herds and kept in 
a pasture adjoining the dairy. All branding was done in 
corrals, and calves were weaned from mother-cows at the 
proper time to benefit both. The old method of branding 
and classing, that had so shocked Madeline, had been 
abandoned, and one had been inaugurated whereby cattle 
and cowboys and horses were spared brutality and injury. 

Madeline established an extensive vegetable farm, and 
she planted orchards. The climate was superior to that 
of California, and, with abundant water, trees and plants 
and gardens flourished and bloomed in a way wonderful 
to behold. It was with ever-increasing pleasure that 
Madeline walked through acres of ground once bare, now 
green and bright and fragrant. There were poultry-yards 
and pig-pens and marshy quarters for ducks and geese. 
Here in the farming section of the ranch Madeline found 
employment for the little colony of Mexicans. Their 


92 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

lives had been as hard and barren as the dry valley where 
they had lived. But as the valley had been transformed 
by the soft, rich touch of water, so their lives had been 
transformed by help and sympathy and work. The chil- 
dren were wretched no more, and many that had been 
blind could now see, and Madeline had become to them 
a new and blessed virgin. 

Madeline looked abroad over these lands and likened 
the change in them and those who lived by them to the 
change in her heart. It may have been fancy, but the 
sun seemed to be brighter, the sky bluer, the wind sweeter. 
Certain it was that the deep green of grass and garden 
was not fancy, nor the white and pink of blossom, nor the 
blaze and perfume of flower, nor the sheen of lake and the 
fluttering of new-born leaves. Where there had been 
monotonous gray there was now vivid and changing color. 
Formerly there had been silence both day and night ; now 
during the sunny hours there was music. The whistle 
of prancing stallions pealed in from the grassy ridges. 
Innumerable birds had come and, like the northward- 
journeying ducks, they had tarried to stay. The song of 
meadow-lark and blackbird and robin, familiar to Made- 
line from childhood, mingled with the new and strange 
heart-throbbing song of mocking-bird and the piercing 
blast of the desert eagle and the melancholy moan of 
turtle-dove 

One April morning Madeline sat in her office wrestling 
with a problem. She had problems to solve every day. 
The majority of these were concerned with the manage- 
ment of twenty-seven incomprehensible cowboys. This 
particular problem involved Ambrose Mills, who had 
eloped with her French maid, Christine. 

Stillwell faced Madeline with a smile almost as huge as 
his bulk. 

“Wal, Miss Majesty, we ketched them; but not before 
Padre Marcos had married them. All thet speedin’ in the 
autoomoobile was jest a-scarin’ of me to death fer nothin’. 


93 


HER MJJESrrS RANCHO 

I tell you Link Stevens is crazy about runnin’ thet car. 
Link never hed no sense even with a boss. He ain’t afraid 
of the devil hisself. If my hair hedn’t been white it ’d 
be white now. No more rides in thet thing fer me! Wal^ 
we ketched Ambrose an’ the girl too late. But we fetched 
them back, an’ they’re out there now, spoonin’, sure 
oblivious to their shameless conduct.” 

“Stillwell, what shall I say to Ambrose? How shall I 
punish him ? He has done wrong to deceive me. I never 
was so surprised in my life. Christine did not seem to 
care any more for Ambrose than for any of the other cow- 
boys. What does my authority amount to? I must do 
something. Stillwell, you must help me.” 

Whenever Madeline fell into a quandary she had to call 
upon the old cattleman. No man ever held a position 
with greater pride than Stillwell, but he had been put 
to tests that steeped him in hiunility. Here he scratched 
his head in great perplexity. 

“Dog-gone the luck! What’s this elopin’ bizness to do 
with cattle-raisin’? I don’t know nothin’ but cattle. ^ 
Miss Majesty, it’s amazin’ strange what these cowbOj^ 
hev come to. I never seen no cowboys like these we've 
got hyar now. I don’t know them any more. They di*ess 
swell an’ read books, an’ some of them hev actooly stoppea 
cussin’ an’ drinkin’. I ain’t sayin’ all this is against them. 
Why, now, they’re jest the finest bunch of cow-punchers 
I ever seen or dreamed of. But managin’ them now is 
beyond me. When cowboys begin to play thet game 
gol-lof an’ run off with French maids I reckon Bill Still- 
well has got to resign.” 

“Stillwell! Oh, you will not leave me? What in 
the world would I do?” exclaimed Madeline, in great 
anxiety. 

“Wal, I sure won’t leave you. Miss Majesty. No, I 
never ’ll do thet. I’ll run the cattle bizness fer you an’ 
see after the bosses an’ other stock. But I’ve got to hev 
a foreman who can handle this amazin’ strange bunch 
of cowboys.” 


94 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

‘‘You’ve tried half a dozen forenten. Try more until 
you find the man who meets your requirements,” said 
Madeline. “Never mind that . now. Tell me how to 
impress Ambrose — to make him an example, so to speak. 

I must have another maid. And I do not want a new one 
carried off in this summary manner.” 

“Wal, if you fetch pretty maids out hyar you can’t 
expect nothin’ else. Why, thet black-eyed little French 
girl, with her white skin an’ pretty airs an’ smiles an’ 
shrugs, she had the cowboys crazy. It ’ll be wuss with 
j the next one.” 

“Oh dear!” sighed Madeline. 

“An’ as fer impressin’ Ambrose, I reckon I can tell you 
how to do thet. Jest give it to him good an’ say you’re 
goin’ to fire him. That ’ll fix Ambrose, an’ mebbe scare 
the other boys fer a spell.” 

“Very well, otillwell, bring Ambrose in to see me, and 
tell Christine to wait in my room.” 

It was a handsome, debonair, bright-eyed cowboy that 
came tramping into Madeline’s presence. His accus- 
tomed shyness and awkwardness had disappeared in an 
excited manner. He was a happy boy. He looked 
5, . . straight into Madeline’s face as if he expected her to wish 
him joy. And Madeline actually found that expression 
trembling to her lips. She held it back until she could 
be severe. But Madeline feared she would fail of much 
\ severity. Something warm and sweet, like a fragrance, 
I ' had entered the room with Ambrose. 

« “Ambrose, what have you done?” she asked. 

[f ^ “ Miss Hammond, I’ve been and gone and got married,” 

pA replied Ambrose, his words tumbling over one another. 

: \ His eyes snapped, and there was a kind of glow upon his 

' ri clean-shaven brown cheek. “I’ve stole a march on the 
Y other boys. There was Frank Slade pushin’ me close, 
;■ /and I was havin’ some runnin’ to keep Jim Bell back in 
i my dust. Even old man Nels made eyes at Christine! 
So I wasn’t goin’ to take any chances. I just packed her 
off to El Cajon and married her.” 


HER MAJESTTS RANCHO 95 

“Oh, so I heard,” said Madeline, slowly, as she watched 
him. “Ambrose, do you — ^love her?” 

He reddened under; her clear gaze, dropped his head, 
and fumbled with his new sombrero, and there was a catch 
in his breath. Madeline saw his powerful brown hand 
tremble. It affected her strangely that this stalwart 
cowboy, who could rope and throw and tie a wild steer 
in less than one minute, should tremble at a mere question. 
Suddenly he raised his head, and at the beautiful blaze of 
his eyes Madeline turned her own away. 

“Yes, Miss Hammond, I love her,” he said. “I think 
I love her in the way you’re askin’ about. I know the 
first time I saw her I thought how wonderful it *d be to 
have a girl like that for my wife. It’s all been so strange — 
her cornin’ an’ how she made me feel. Sure I never knew 
many girls, and I haven’t seen any girls at all for years. 
But when she came! A girl makes a wonderful difference 
in a man’s feeling and thoughts. I guess I never had any 
before. Leastways, none like I have now. My — ^it — ^well, 
I guess I have a little understandin’ now of Padre Marcos’s 
blessin’.” 

“Ambrose, have you nothing to say to me?” asked 
Madeline. 

“I’m sure sorry I didn’t have time to tell you. But 
I was in some hurry.” 

“What did you intend to do? Where were you going 
when Stillwell found you?” 

“We’d just been married. I hadn’t thought of any- 
thing after that. Suppose I’d have rustled back to my 
job. I’ll sure have to work now and save my money.” 

“Oh, well, Ambrose, I am glad you realize your respon- 
sibilities. Do you earn enough — is your pay sufficient to 
keep a wife?” 

“Sure it is! Why, Miss Hammond, I never before 
earned half the salary I’m gettin’ now. It’s some fine 
to. work f^i* you. I’m goin’ to fire the boys out of my 
bunk-house and fix it up for Christine and me. Say, won’t 
they be jealous?” 


96 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Ambrose, I — i congratulate you. I wish you joy,’* 
said Madeline. “I — I shall make Christine a little wed- 
ding-present. I want to talk to her for a few moments. 
You may go now.” 

It would have been impossible for Madeline to say 
one severe word to that happy cowboy. She experienced 
difficulty in hiding her own happiness at the turn of events. 
Curiosity and interest mingled with her pleasure when 
she called to Christine. 

“Mrs. Ambrose Mills, please come in.” 

No sound came from the other room. 

“I should like very much to see the bride,” went on 
Madeline. 

Still there was no stir or reply. 

“Christine!” called Madeline. 

Then it was as if a little whirlwind of flying feet and 
entreating hands and beseeching eyes blew in upon Made- 
line. Christine was small, graceful, plump, with very 
white skin and very dark hair. She had been Made- 
line’s favorite maid for years and there was sincere 
affection between the two. Whatever had been the bliss- 
ful ignorance of Ambrose, it was manifestly certain that 
Christine knew how she had transgressed. Her fear and 
remorse and appeal for forgiveness were poured out in an 
incoherent storm. Plain it was that the little French 
maid had been overwhelmed. It was only after Madeline 
had taken the emotional girl in her arms and had for- 
given and soothed her that her part in the elopement 
became clear. Christine was in a maze. But gradually, 
as she talked and saw that she was forgiven, calmness 
came in some degree, and with it a story which amused 
yet shocked Madeline. The unmistakable, shy, marvel- 
ing love, scarcely realized by Christine, gave Madeline 
relief and joy. If Christine loved Ambrose there was no 
harm done. Watching the girl’s eyes, wonderful with 
their changes of thought, listening to her attempts to 
explain what it was evident she did not understand, 
Madeline gathered that if ever a caveman had taken 


97 


HER MAJESTTS RANCHO 

unto himself a wife, if ever a barbarian had carried off 
a Sabine woman, then Ambrose Mills had acted with the 
violence of such ancient forebears. Just how it all hap- 
pened seemed to be beyond Christine. 

“He say he love me,” repeated the girl, in a kind of 
rapt awe. “He ask me to marry him — ^he kees me — ^he 
hug me — ^he lift me on ze horse — ^he ride with me all night 
— he marry me.” 

And she exhibited a ring on the third finger of her left 
hand. Madeline saw that, whatever had been the state 
of Christine’s feeling for Ambrose before this marriage, 
she loved him now. She had been taken forcibly, but 
she was won. 

After Christine had gone, comforted and betraying her 
shy eagerness to get back to Ambrose, Madeline was 
haunted by the look in the girl’s eyes, and her words. 
Assuredly the spell of romance was on this sunny land. 
For Madeline there was a nameless charm, a nameless 
thrill combating her sense of the violence and unfitness 
of Ambrose’s wooing. Something, she knew not what, 
took arms against her intellectual arraignment of the cow- 
boy’s method of getting himself a wife. He had said 
straight out that he loved the girl — ^he had asked her to 
marry him — he kissed her — he hugged her — he lifted her 
upon his horse — he rode away with her through the night 
— and he married her. In whatever light Madeline re- 
viewed this thing she always came back to her first 
natural impression; it thrilled her, charmed her. It went 
against all the precepts of her training; nevertheless, it was 
somehow splendid and beautiful. She imagined it stripped 
another artificial scale from her over-sophivSticated eyes. 

Scarcely had she settled again to the task on her desk 
when Stillwell’s heavy tread across the porch interrupted 
her. This time when he entered he wore a look that bor- 
dered upon the hysterical : it was difficult to tell whether 
he was trying to suppress grief or glee. 

“Miss Majesty, there’s another amazin’ strange thing 
sprung on me. Hyars Jim Bell come to see you, an’, when 


98 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

I taxed him, sayin^ you was tolerable busy, he up an' says 
he was hungry an’ he ain’t a-goin’ to eat any more bread 
made in a wash-basin! Says he’ll starve first. Says Nels 
hed the gang over to his bunk an’ feasted them on bread 
you taught him how to make in some new-fangled bucket- 
machine with a crank. Jim says thet bread beat any cake 
he ever eat, an’ he wants you to show him how to make 
some. Now, Miss Majesty, as superintendent of this 
ranch I ought to know what’s goin’ on. Mebbe Jim is 
jest a-joshin’ me. Mebbe he’s gone clean dotty. Mebbe 
I hev. An’ beggin’ your pardon, I want to know if there’s 
any truth in what Jim says Nels says.” 

Whereupon it became necessary for Madeline to stifle 
her mirth and to inform the sadly perplexed old cattle- 
man that she had received from the East a patent bread- 
mixer, and in view of the fact that her household women 
had taken fright at the contrivance, she had essayed to 
operate it herself. This had turned out to be so simple, 
so saving of time and energy and flour, so much more 
cleanly than the old method of mixing dough with the 
hands, and particularly it had resulted in such good bread, 
that Madeline had been pleased. Immediately she or- 
dered more of the bread-mixers. One day she had hap- 
pened upon Nels making biscuit dough in his wash-basin, 
and she had delicately and considerately introduced to 
him the idea of her new method. Nels, it appeared, had 
a great reputatipn as a bread-maker, and he was proud of 
it. Moreover, he was skeptical of any clap-trap thing with 
wheels and cranks. He consented, however, to let her show 
how the thing worked and to sample some of the bread. 
To that end she had him come up to the house, where 
she won him over. Stillwell laughed loud and long. 

“Wal, wal, wall” he exclaimed, at length. “Thet’s 
fine, an’ it’s powerful funny. Mebbe you don’t see how 
funny? Wal, Nels has jest been lordin’ it over the boys 
about how you showed him, an’ now you’ll hev to show 
every last cowboy on the place the same thing. Cowboys 
are the jealousest kind of fellers. They’re all crazy about 


99 


HER MAJESTTS RANCHO 

you, anyway. Take Jim out hj^r. Why, thet lazy cow- 
puncher jest never wotild make bread. He’s notorious 
fer shirkin’ his share of the grub deal. I’ve knowed Jim 
to trade off washin’ the pots an’ pans fer a lonely watch 
on a rainy night. All he wants is to see you show him 
the same as Nels is crowin’ over. Then he’ll crow over 
his bunlde, Frank Slade, an’ then Frank ’ll get lonely to 
know all about this wonderful bread-machine. Cowboys 
are amazin’ strange critters. Miss Majesty. An’ now thet 
you’ve begun with them this way, you’ll hev to keep it 
up. I will say I never seen such a bunch to work. You’ve 
sure put heart in them.” 

^‘Indeed, Stillwell, I am glad to hear that,” replied 
Madeline. “And I shall be pleased to teach them' all. 
But may I not have them all up here at once — at least 
those off duty?” 

“ Wal, I reckon you can’t onless you want to hev them 
scrappin’,” rejoined Stillwell, dryly. “What you’ve got 
on your hands now, Miss Majesty, is to let ’em come one 
by one, an’ make each cowboy think you’re takin’ more 
especial pleasure in showin’ him than the feller who came 
before him. Then mebbe we can go on with cattle-raisin ’ . ” 

Madeline protested, and Stillwell held inexorably to 
what he said was wisdom. Several times Madeline had 
gone against his advice, to her utter discomfiture and rout. 
She dared not risk it again, and resigned herself grace- 
fully and with subdued merriment to her task. Jim Bell 
was ushered into the great, light, spotless kitchen, where 
presently Madeline appeared to put on an apron and 
roll up her sleeves. She explained the use of the several 
pieces of aliuninum that made up the bread-mixer and 
fastened the bucket to the table-shelf. Jim’s life might 
have depended upon this lesson, judging from his ab- 
sorbed manner and his desire to have things explained 
over and over, es^ ^cially the turning of the crank. When 
Madeline had to tk^e Jim’s hand three times to show him 
the simple mechanism and then he did not understand, 
she began to have faint misgivings as to his absolute sin- 


loo THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


cerity. She guessed that as long as she touched Jim’s 
hand he never would understand. Then as she began to 
measure out flour and milk and lard and salt and yeast 
she saw with despair that Jim was not looking at the in- 
gredients, was not paying the slightest attention to them. 
His eyes were covertly upon her. 

Jim, I am not sure about you,” said Madeline, severely. 
“How can you learn to make bread if you do not watch 
me mix it?” 

“I am a-watchin’ you,” replied Jim, innocently. 

Finally Madeline sent the cowboy on his way rejoic- 
ing with the bread-mixer under his arm. Next morning, 
true to Stillwell’s prophecy, Frank Slade, Jim’s bunk- 
mate, presented himself cheerfully to Madeline and im- 
bosomed himself of a long-deferred and persistent desire 
to relieve his overworked comrade of some of the house- 
keeping in their bunk. 

“Miss Hammond,” said Frank, “Jim’s orful kind want- 
in’ to do it all hisself. But he ain’t very bright, an’ I 
didn’t believe him. You see, I’m from Missouri, an’ you’ll 
have to show me.” 

For a whole week Madeline held clinics where she ex- 
pounded the scientific method of modem bread-making. 
She got a good deal of enjoyment out of her lecttires. 
What boys these great hulking fellows were! She saw 
through their simple mses. Some of them were grave as 
deacons; others wore expressions important enough to 
have fitted the faces of statesmen signing government 
treaties. These cowboys were children; they needed to 
be governed; but in order to govern them they had to 
be humored. A more light-hearted, fun-loving crowd of 
boys could not have been found. And they were grown 
men. Stillwell explained that the exuberance of spirits 
lay in the difference in their fortunes. Twenty-seven 
cowboys, in relays of nine, worked eight hours a day. 
That had never been heard of before in the West. Still- 
well declared that cowboys from all points of the compass 
would head their horses toward Her Majesty’s Rancho. 


lOI 


VIII 

EL CAPITAN 

OTILLWELL’S interest in the revolution across the 
O Mexican line had manifestly increased with [the news 
that Gene Stewart had achieved distinction with the rebel 
forces. Thereafter the old cattleman sent for El Paso and 
Douglas newspapers, wrote to ranchmen he knew on the 
big bend of the ^^o Grande, and he would talk indefinitely 
to any one who would listen to him. There was not any 
possibility of Stillwell’s friends at the ranch forgetting 
his favorite cowboy. Stillwell always prefaced his eulogy 
with an apologetic statement that Stewart had gone to 
the bad. Madeline liked to listen to him, though she 
was not always sure which news was authentic and which 
imagination. 

There appeared to be no doubt, however, that the cow- 
boy had performed some daring feats for the rebels. 
Madeline found his name mentioned in several of the 
border papers. When the rebels under Madero stormed 
and captured the city of Juarez, Stewart did fighting 
that won him the name of El Capitan. This battle ap- 
parently ended the revolution. The capitulation of 
President Diaz followed shortly, and there was a feeling 
of relief among ranchers on the border from Texas to 
California. Nothing more was heard of Gene Stewart 
until April, when a report reached Stillwell that the cow- 
boy had arrived in El Cajon, evidently hunting trouble. 
The old cattleman saddled a horse and started post-haste 
for town. In two days he returned, depressed in spirit. 
Madeline happened to be present when Stillwell talked 
to Alfred. 


102 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


“I got there too late, Al,” said the cattleman. “Gene 
was gone. An’ what do you think of this? Danny 
Mains hed jest left with a couple of burros packed. I 
couldn’t find what way he went, but I’m bettin’ he hit 
the Peloncillo trail.” 

‘ ‘ Danny will show up some day, ’ ’ replied Alfred. ‘ ‘ What 
did you learn about Stewart ? Maybe he left with Danny . ’ ’ 

“Not much,” said Stillwell, shortly. “Gene’s hell-bent 
fer election! No mountains fer him.” 

“Well, tell us about him.” 

Stillwell wiped his sweaty brow and squared himself to 
talk. 

“Wal, it’s sure amazin’ strange about Gene. Its got 
me locoed. He arrived in El Cajon a week or so ago. He 
was trained down like as if he’d been ridin’ the range all 
winter. He hed plenty of money — Mex, they said. An’ 
all the Greasers was crazy about him. Called him El 
Capitan. He got drunk an’ went roarin’ round fer Pat 
Ha we. You remember that Greaser who was plugged 
last October — ^the night Miss Majesty arrived? Wal, he’s 
daid. He’s daid, an’ people says thet Pat is a-goin’ to 
lay thet killin’ onto Gene. I reckon thet’s jest talk, 
though Pat is mean enough to do it, if he hed the nerve. 
Anyway, if he was in El Cajon he kept mighty much to 
hisself. Gene walked up an’ down, up an’ down, all 
day an’ night, lookin’ fer Pat. But he didn’t find him. 
An’, of course, he kept gettin’ drunker. He jest got 
plumb bad. He made lots of trouble, but there wasn’t 
no gun-play. Mebbe thet made him sore, so he went an’ 
licked Flo’s brother-in-law. Thet wasn’t so bad. Jack 
sure needed a good lickin’. Wal, then Gene met Danny 
an’ tried to get Danny drunk. An’ he couldn’t! What 
do you think of that? Danny hedn’t been drinkin’ — 
wouldn’t touch a drop. I’m sure glad of thet, but it’s 
so amazin’ strange. Why, Danny was a fish fer red 
liquor. I guess he an’ Gene had some pretty hard words, 
though I’m not sure about thet. Anyway, Gene went 
down to the railroad an’ he got on an engine, an’ he was 


EL CAPITAN 


105 


in the engine when it pulled out. Lord, I hope he doesn’t 
hold up the train! If he gets gay over in Arizona he’ll 
go to the pen at Yuma, An’ thet pen is a graveyard fer 
cowboys. I wired to agents along the railroad to look 
out fer Stewart, an’ to wire back to me if he’s located.” 

“Suppose you do find him, Stillwell, what can you do?” 
inquired Alfred. 

The old man nodded gloomily. 

“ I straightened him up once. Mebbe I can do it again.” 
Then, brightening somewhat, he turned to Madeline. “I 
jest hed an idee. Miss Majesty. If I can get him, Gene 
Steward is the cowboy I want fer my foreman. He can 
manage this bunch of cow-punchers thet are drivin’ me 
dotty. What’s more, since he’s fought fer the rebels an’ 
got that name El Capitan, all the Greasers in the country 
will kneel to him. ,Now, Miss Majesty, we hevn’t got 
rid of Don Carlos an’ his vaqueros yet. To be sure, he sold 
you his house an’ ranch an’ stock. But you remember 
nothin’ was put in black and white about when he should 
get out. An’ Don Carlos ain’t gettin’ out. I don’t like 
the looks of things a little bit. I’ll tell you now thet Don 
Carlos knows somethin’ about the cattle I lost, an’ thet 
you’ve been losin’ right along. Thet Greaser is hand an’ 
glove with the rebels. I’m willin’ to gamble thet when he 
does get out he an’ his vaqueros will make another one of 
the bands of guerrillas thet are harassin’ the border. 
This revolution ain’t over yet. It’s jest commenced. 
An’ all these gangs of outlaws are goin’ to take advantage 
of it. We’ll see some old times, mebbe. Wal, I need 
Gene Stewart. I need him bad. Will you let me hire 
%him. Miss Majesty, if I can get him straightened up?” 

The old cattleman ended huskily. 

“Stillwell, by all means find Stewart, and do not wait 
to straighten him up. Bring him to the ranch,” replied 
Madeline. 

Thanking her, Stillwell led his horse away. 

“Strange how he loves that cowboy!” murmured Made- 
line. 


104 the light of western stars 

“Not so strange, Majesty,** replied her brother, “Not 
when you know. Stewart has been with Stillwell on some 
hard trips into the desert alone. There’s no middle course 
of feeling between men facing death in the desert. Either 
they hate each other or love each other. I don’t know, 
but I imagine Stewart did something for Stillwell — saved 
his life, perhaps. Besides, Stewart’s a lovable chap when 
he’s going straight. I hope Stillwell brings him back. 
We do need him. Majesty. He’s a bom leader. Once 
I saw him ride into a bunch of Mexicans whom we sus- 
pected of rustling. It was fine to see him. Well, I’m 
sorry to tell you that we are worried about Don Carlos. 
Some of his vaqueros came into my yard the other day 
when I had left Flo alone. She had a bad scare. These 
vaqmros have been different since 'Don Carlos sold the 
ranch. For that matter, I never would have tmsted a 
white woman alone with them. But they are bolder now. 
Something’s in the wind. They’ve got assurance. They 
can ride off any night and cross the border.” 

During the succeeding week Madeline discovered that 
a good deal of her sympathy for Stillwell in his hunt for 
the reckless Stewart had insensibly grown to be sympathy 
for the cowboy. It was rather a paradox, she thought, 
that opposed to the continual reports of Stewart’s wild- 
ness as he caroused from town to town were the con- 
tinual expressions of good will and faith and hope uni- 
versally given out by those near her at the ranch. Still- 
well loved the cowboy; Florence was fond of him; Alfred 
liked and admired him, pitied him; the cowboys swore 
their regard for him the more he disgraced himself. The 
Mexicans called him El Gran Capitan. Madeline’s per- 
sonal opinion of Stewart had not changed in the least 
since the night it had been formed. But certain attri- 
butes of his, not clearly defined in her mind, and the gift 
of his beautiful horse, his valor with the fighting rebels, 
and all this strange regard for him, especially that of her 
brother, made her exceedingly regret the cowboy’s present 
behavior. 


EL CAPITAN 


105 

Meanwhile Stillwell was so earnest and zealous that 
one not familiar with the situation would have believed 
he was trying to find and reclaim his own son. He made 
several trips to little stations in the valley, and from 
these he retiuned with a gloomy face. Madeline got the 
details from Alfred. Stewart was going from bad to 
worse — drunk, disorderly, savage, sure to land in the 
penitentiary. Then came a report that hurried Stillwell 
off to Rodeo. He returned on the third day, a crushed 
man. He had been so bitterly hurt that no one, not even 
Madeline, could get out of him what had happened. He 
admitted finding Stewart, failing to influence him; and 
when the old cattleman got so far he turned purple in the 
face and talked to himself, as if dazed: ‘‘But Gene was 
drunk. He was drunk, or he couldn’t hev treated old Bill 
like thet!” 

Madeline was stirred with an anger toward the brutal 
cowboy that was as strong as her sorrow for the loyal old 
cattleman. And it was when Stillwell gave up that she 
resolved to take a hand. The persistent faith of Still- 
well, his pathetic excuses in the face of what must have 
been Stewart’s violence, perhaps baseness, actuated her 
powerfully, gave her new insight into human nature. 
She honored a faith that remained unshaken. And the 
strange thought came to her that Stewart must somehow 
be worthy of such a faith, or he never could have inspired 
it. Madeline discovered that she wanted to believe that 
somewhere deep down in the most depraved and sinful 
wretch upon earth there was some grain of good. She 
yearned to have the faith in human nature that Stillwell 
had in Stewart. 

She sent Nels, mounted upon his own horse, and lead- 
ing Majesty, to Rodeo in search of Stewart. Nels had 
instructions to bring Stewart back to the ranch. In due 
time Nels returned, leading the roan without a rider. 

“Yep, I shore found him,” replied Nels, when ques- 
tioned. “Found him half sobered up. He’d been in a 
scrap, an* somebody hed put him to sleep, I guess. Wal, 


io6 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


when he seen thet roan noss he let out a yell an’ grabbed 
him round the neck. The hoss knowed him, all right. 
Then Gene hugged the hoss an’ cried — cried like — I never 
seen no one who cried like he did. I waited awhile, an’ 
was jest goin’ to say somethin’ to him when he turned on 
me red-eyed, mad as fire. ‘ Nels,’ he said, ‘ I care a hell of 
a lot fer thet hoss, an’ I liked you pretty well, but if you 
don’t take him away quick I’ll shoot you both.’ Wal, I 
lit out. I didn’t even git to say howdy to him.” 

“Nels, you think it useless — ^any attempt to see him — 
persuade him?” asked Madeline. 

“I shore do. Miss Hammond,” replied Nels, gravely, 
“ I’ve seen a few sun-blinded an’ locoed an’ snake-poisoned 
an’ skimk-bitten cow-punchers in my day, but Gene 
Stewart beats ’em all. He’s shore runnin’ wild fer the 
divide.” 

Madeline dismissed Nels, but before he got out of ear- 
shot she heard him speak to Stillwell, who awaited him 
on the porch. 

“Bill, put this in your pipe an’ smoke it — ^none of them 
scraps Gene has hed was over a woman! It used to be 
thet when he was drunk he’d scrap over every pretty 
Greaser girl he’d run across. Thet’s why Pat Hawe 
thinks Gene plugged the strange vaquero who was with 
little Bonita thet night last fall. Wal, Gene’s scrappin’ 
now jest to git shot up hisself, for some reason thet only 
God Almighty knows.” 

Nels’s story of how Stewart wept over his horse in- 
fluenced Madeline powerfully. Her next move was to 
persuade Alfred to see if he could not do better with this 
doggedly bent cowboy. Alfred needed only a word of 
persuasion, for he said he had considered going to Rodeo 
of his own accord. He went, and returned alone. 

“Majesty, I can’t explain Stewart’s singular actions,” 
said Alfred. “I saw him, talked with him. He knew 
me, but nothing I said appeared to get to him. He has 
changed terribly. I fancy his once magnificent strength 
is breaking. It — it actually hurt me to look at him. I 


EL CAPITAN 


107 


couldn’t have fetched him back here — not as he is now. 
I heard all about him, and if he isn’t downright out of 
his mind he’s hell-bent, as Bill says, on getting killed. 
Some of his escapades are — are not for your ears. Bill 
did all any man could do for another. We’ve all done 
our best for Stewart. If you’d been given a chance per- 
haps you could have saved him. But it’s too late. Put 
it out of mind now, dear.” 

Madeline, however, did not forget nor give it up. If 
she had forgotten or surrendered, she felt that she would 
have been relinquishing infinitely more than hope to aid 
one ruined man. But she was at a loss to know what 
further steps to take. Days passed, and each one brought 
additional gossip of Stewart’s headlong career toward the 
Yuma penitentiary. For he had crossed the line into 
Cochise County, Arizona, where sheriffs kept a stricter 
observance of law. Finally a letter came from a friend 
of Nels’s in Chiricahua saying that Stewart had been hurt 
in a brawl there. His hurt was not serious, but it would 
probably keep him quiet long enough to get sober, and 
this opportunity, Nels’s informant said, would be a good 
one for Stewart’s friends to take him home before he got 
locked up. This epistle inclosed a letter to Stewart from 
his sister. Evidently, it had been found upon him. It 
told a story of illness and made an appeal for aid. Nels’s 
friend forwarded this letter without Stewart’s knowledge, 
thinking Stillwell might care to help Stewart’s family. 
Stewart had no money, he said. 

The sister’s letter found its way to Madeline. She 
read it, tears in her eyes. It told Madeline much more 
-than its brief story of illness and poverty and wonder 
why Gene had not written home for so long. It told of 
motherly love, sisterly love, brotherly love — dear family 
ties that had not been broken. It spoke of pride in this 
El Capitan brother who had become famous. It was 
signed “your loving sister Letty.” 

Not improbably, Madeline revolved in mind, this lettA* 
was one reason for Stewart’s headstrong, long-continued 


io8 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


abasement. It had been received too late — after he had 
squandered the money that would have meant so much 
to mother and sister. Be that as it might, Madeline im- 
mediately sent a bank-draft to Stewart’s sister with a 
letter explaining that the money was drawn in advance 
on Stewart’s salary. This done, she impulsively deter- 
mined to go to Chiricahua herself. 

The horseback-rides Madeline had taken to this little 
Arizona hamlet had tried her endurahce to the utmost; 
but the journey by automobile, except for some rocky 
bits of road and sandy stretches, was comfortable, and a 
matter of only a few hours. The big touring-car was still 
a kind of seventh wonder to the Mexicans and cowboys; 
not that automobiles were very new and strange, but 
because this one was such an enormous machine and capa- 
ble of greater speed than an express-train. The chauffeur 
who had arrived with the car found his situation among 
the jealous cowboys somewhat far removed from a bed 
of roses. He had been induced to remain long enough 
to teach the operating and mechanical technique of the 
car. And choice fell upon Link Stevens, for the simple 
reason that of all the cowboys he was the only one with 
any knack for mechanics. Now Link had been a hard- 
riding, hard-driving cowboy, and that winter he had sus- 
tained an injury to his leg, caused by a bad fall, and was 
unable to sit his horse. This had been gall and worm- 
wood to him. But when the big white automobile came 
and he was elected to drive it, life was once more worth 
living for him. But all the other cowboys regarded Link 
and his machine as some correlated species of demon. 
They were deathly afraid of both. 

It was for this reason that Nels, when Madeline asked 
him to accompany her to Chiricahua, replied, reluctantly, 
that he would rather follow on his horse. However, she 
prevailed over his hesitancy, and with Florence also in the 
car they set out. For miles and miles the valley road 
was smooth, hard-packed, and slightly downhill. And 
when speeding was perfectly safe, Madeline was not 


EL CAPITAN 


ro9 

averse to it. The grassy plain sailed backward in gray 
sheets, and the little dot in the valley grew larger and 
larger. From time to time Link glanced round at un- 
happy Nels, whose eyes were wild and whose hands 
clutched his seat. While the car was crossing the sandy 
and rocky places, going slowly, Nels appeared to breathe 
easier. And when it stopped in the wide, dusty street of 
Chiricahua Nels gladly tiimbled out. 

“Nels, we shall wait here in the car while you find 
Stewart,” said Madeline. 

“Miss Hammond, I reckon Gene ’ll run when he sees 
us, if he’s able to run,” replied Nels. “Wal, I’ll go find 
him an’ make up my mind then what we’d better do.” 

Nels crossed the railroad track and disappeared behind 
the low, flat houses. After a little time he reappeared 
and hurried up to the car. Madeline felt his gray gaze 
searching her face. 

“Miss Hammond, I found him,” said Nels. “He was 
sleepin’. I woke him. He’s sober an’ not bad hurt; 
but I don’t believe you ought to see him. Mebbe Flor- 
ence — ” 

“Nels, I want to see him myself. Why not? What 
did he say when you told him I was here?” 

“Shore I didn’t tell him that. I jest says, ‘Hullo, 
Gene!’ an’ he says, ‘My Gawd! Nels! mebbe I ain’t glad 
to see a human bein’.’ He asked me who was with me, 
an’ I told him Link an’ some friends. I said I’d fetch 
them in. He hollered at thet. But I went, an)rway. 
Now, if you really will see him. Miss Hammond, it’s a 
good chance. But shore it’s a touchy matter, an’ you’ll 
be some sick at sight of him. He’s layin’ in a Greaser hole 
over here. Likely the Greasers hev been kind to him. 
But they’re shore a poor lot.” 

Madeline did not hesitate a moment. 

“Thank you, Nels. Take me at once. Come, Flor- 
ence.” 

They left the car, now surrounded by gaping-eyed 
Mexican children, and crossed the dusty space to a nar- 


no THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


row lane between red adobe walls. Passing by several 
houses, Nels stopped at the door of what appeared to be 
an alleyway leading back. It was filthy. 

“He’s in there, around thet first comer. It’s a patio, 
open an’ sunny. An’, Miss Hammond, if you don’t mind, 
I’ll wait here for you. I reckon Gene wouldn’t like any 
fellers around when he sees you girls.” 

It was that which made Madeline hesitate then and go 
forward slowly. She had given no thought at all to what 
Stewart might feel when suddenh^’ surprised by her 
presence. 

“Florence, you wait also,” said Madeline, at the door- 
way, and turned in alone. 

And she had stepped into a broken-down patio littered 
with alfalfa straw and debris, all clear in the sunlight. 
Upon a bench, back toward her, sat a man looking out 
through the rents in the broken wall. He had not heard 
her. The place was not quite so filthy and stifling as 
the passages Madeline had come through to get there. 
Then she saw that it had been used as a corral. A rat 
ran boldly across the dirt floor. The air swarmed with 
flies, which the man brushed at with weary hand. Made- 
line did not recognize Stewart. The side of his face 
exposed to her gaze was black, bmised, bearded. His 
clothes were ragged and soiled. There were bits of al- 
falfa in his hair. His shoulders sagged. He made a 
wretched and hopeless figure sitting there. Madeline 
divined something of why Nels shrank from being present. 

“Mr. Stewart. It is I, Miss Hammond, come to see 
you,” she said. 

He grew suddenly perfectly motionless, as if he had 
been changed to stone. She repeated her greeting. 

His body jerked. He moved violently as if instinctively 
to turn and face this intmder; but a more violent move- 
ment checked him. 

Madeline waited. How singular that this mined cow- 
boy had pride which kept him from showing his face! 
And was it not shame more than pride? 


EL CAP IT AN III 

*‘Mr. Stewart, I have come to talk with you, if you will 
let me.” 

“Go away,” he muttered. 

“Mr. Stewart!” she began, with involuntary hauteur. 
But instantly she corrected herself, became deliberate 
and cool, for she saw that she might fail to be even heard 
by this man. “I have come to help you. Will you let 
me?” 

“For God’s sake! You — you — ” he choked over the 
words. “Go away!” 

“Stewart, perhaps it was for God’s sake that I came,” 
said Madeline, gently. “Surely it was for yours — and 
your sister’s — ” Madeline bit her tongue, for she had 
not meant to betray her knowledge of Letty. 

He groaned, and, staggering up to the broken wall, 
he leaned there with his face hidden. Madeline reflected 
that perhaps the slip of speech had been well. 

“Stewart, please let me say what I have to say?” 

He was silent. And she gathered courage and inspira- 
tion. 

“Stillwell is deeply hurt, deeply grieved that he could 
not turn you back from this — this fatal course. My 
brother is also. They wanted to help you. And so do 
I. I have come, thinking somehow I might succeed where 
they have failed. Nels brought your sister’s letter. 

I read it. I was only the more determined to try to help 
you, and indirectly help your mother and Letty. Stewart, 
we want you to come to the ranch. Stillwell needs you 
for his foreman. The position is open to you, and you 
can name your salary. Both A1 and Stillwell are worried 
about Don Carlos, the vaqueros, and the raids down along 
the border. My cowboys are without a capable leader. 
Will you come?” 

“No,” he answered. 

“But Stillwell wants you so badly.” 

“No.” 

“Stewart, I want you to come.” 

“No.” 


1 12 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


His replies had been hoarse, loud, furious. They dis- 
concerted Madeline, and she paused, trying to think 
of a way to proceed. Stewart staggered away from 
the wall, and, falling upon the bench, he hid his face 
in his hands. All his motions, like his speech, had been 
violent. 

“Will you please go away?” he asked. 

“Stewart, certainly I cannot remain here longer if you 
insist upon my going. But why not listen to me when I 
want so much to help you? Why?” 

“Fm a damned blackguard,” he burst out. “But I 
was a gentleman once, and Fm not so low that I can stand 
for you seeing me here.” 

“When I made up my mind to help you I made it up 
to see you wherever you were. Stewart, come away, 
come back with us to the ranch. You are in a bad con- 
dition now. Everything looks black to you. But that 
will pass. When you are among friends again you will 
get well. You will be your old self. The very fact that 
you were once a gentleman, that you come of good family, 
makes you owe so much more to yourself. Why, Stew- 
art, think how young you are! It is a shame to waste 
your life. Come back with me.” 

“Miss Hammond, this was my last plunge,” he replied, 
despondently. “It’s too late.” 

“Oh no, it is not so bad as that.” 

“It’s too late.” 

“At least make an effort, Stewart. Try!” 

“No. There’s no use. I’m done for. Please leave 
me — thank you for — ” 

He had been savage, then sullen, and now he was 
grim. Madeline all but lost power to resist his strange, 
deadly, cold finality. No doubt he knew he was doomed. 
Yet something halted her — held her even as she took a 
backward step. And she became conscious of a subtle 
change in her own feeling. She had come into that 
squalid hole, Madeline Hammond, earnest enough, kind 
enough in her own intentions; but she had been almost 


EL CAPITAN 


113 

imperious — a woman habitually, proudly used to being 
obeyed. She divined that all the pride, blue blood, wealth, 
culture, distinction, all the impersonal condescending 
persuasion, all the fatuous philanthropy on earth would not 
avail to turn this man a single hair’s-breadth from his 
downward career to destruction. Her coming had ter- 
ribly augmented his bitter hate of himself. She was 
going to fail to help him. She experienced a sensation 
of impotence that amounted almost to distress. The 
situation assumed a tragic keenness. She had set forth 
to reverse the tide of a wild cowboy’s fortunes; she faced 
the swift wasting of his life, the damnation of his soul. 
The subtle consciousness of change in her was the birth 
of that faith she had revered in Stillwell. And all at 
once she became merely a woman, brave and sweet and 
indomitable. 

“Stewart, look at me,” she said. 

He shuddered. She advanced and laid a hand on his 
bent shoulder. Under the light touch he appeared to sink. 

“Look at me,” she repeated. 

But he could not lift his head. He was abject, crushed. 
He dared not show his swollen, blackened face. His 
fierce, cramped posture revealed more than his features 
might have shown; it betrayed the torturing shame of 
a man of pride and passion, a man who had been con- 
fronted in his degradation by the woman he had dared 
to enshrine in his heart. It betrayed his love. 

“Listen, then,” went on Madeline, and her voice was 
unsteady. “Listen to me, Stewart. The greatest men 
are those who have fallen deepest into the mire, sinned 
most, suffered most, and then have fought their evil 
natures and conquered. I think you can shake off this 
desperate mood and be a man.” 

“No!” he cried. 

“ Listen to me again. Somehow I know you’re worthy 
of Stillwell’s love. Will you come back with us — for 
his sake?” 

“No. It’s too late, I tell you.” 


II4 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Stewart, the best thing in life is faith in htiman natiire. 
I have faith in you. I believe you are worth it.” 

“You’re only kind and good — saying that. You can't 
mean it.” 

“I mean it with all my heart,” she replied, a sudden 
rich warmth suffusing her body as she saw the first sign 
of his softening. “Will you come back — if not for yom 
own sake or Stfilwell’s — then for mine?” 

“What am I to such a woman as you?” 

“A man in trouble, Stewart. But I have come to help 
you, to show my faith in you.” 

“If I believed that I might try,” he said. 

“Listen,” she began, softly, hurriedly. “My word is 
not lightly given. Let it prove my faith in you. Look 
at me now and say you will come.” 

He heaved up his big frame as if trying to cast off a 
giant’s burden, and then slowly he turned toward her. 
His face was a blotched and terrible thing. The physical 
brutalizing marks were there, and at that instant all that 
appeared htiman to Madeline was the dawning in dead, 
fumace-like eyes of a beautiful light. 

“I’ll come,” he whispered, huskily. “Give me a few 
days to straighten up, then I’ll come.” 


II5 


IX 

THE NEW FOREMAN 

T oward the end of the week Stillwell informed 
Madeline that Stewart had arrived at the ranch 
and had taken up quarters with Nels. 

“Gene’s sick. He looks bad,” said the old cattleman. 
“He’s so weak an’ shaky he can’t lift a cup. Nels says 
that Gene has hed some bad spells. A little liquor would 
straighten him up now. But Nels can’t force him to 
drink a drop, an’ has hed to sneak some liquor in his 
coffee. Wal, I think we’ll pull Gene through. He’s for- 
gotten a lot. I was goin’ to tell him what he did tome 
up at Rodeo. But I know if he’d believe it he’d be sicker 
than he is. Gene’s losin’ his mind, or he’s got somethin’ 
powerful strange on it.” 

From that time Stillwell, who evidently found Made- 
line his most sympathetic listener, unburdened himself 
daily of his hopes and fears and conjectures. 

Stewart was really ill. It became necessary to send 
Link Stevens for a physician. Then Stewart began slowly 
to mend and presently was able to get up and about. 
Stillwell said the cowboy lacked interest and seemed to 
be a broken man. This statement, however, the old 
cattleman modified as Stewart continued to improve. 
Then presently it was a good augury of Stewart’s prog- 
ress that the cowboys once more took up the teasing rela- 
tion which had been characteristic of them before his 
illness. A cowboy was indeed out of sorts when he 
could not vent his peculiar humor on somebody or some- 
thing. Stewart had evidently become a broad target for 
their badinage. 


ii6 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


“Wal, the boys are sure after Gene,” said Stillwell, 
with his huge smile. “Joshin’ him all the time about 
how he sits around an’ hangs around an’ loafs around jest 
to get a glimpse of you, Miss Majesty. Sure all the boys 
hev a pretty bad case over their pretty boss, but none 
of them is a marker to Gene. He’s got it so bad, Miss 
Majesty, thet he actooly don’t know they are joshin’ 
him. It’s the amazin’est strange thing I ever seen. 
Why, Gene was always a feller thet you could josh. An’ 
he’d laugh an’ get back at you. But he was never before 
deaf to talk, an’ there was a certain limit no feller cared 
to cross with him. Now he takes every word an’ smiles 
dreamy like, an’ jest looks an’ looks. Why, he’s begin- 
nin* to make me tired. He’ll never run thet bunch of 
cowboys if he doesn’t wake up quick.” 

Madeline smiled her amusement and expressed a belief 
that Stillwell wanted too much in such short time from 
a man who had done body and mind a grievous injury. 

It had been impossible for Madeline to fail to observe 
Stewart’s singular behavior. She never went out to take 
her customary walks and rides without seeing him some- 
where in the distance. She was aware that he watched 
for her and avoided meeting her. When she sat on the 
porch during the afternoon or at sunset Stewart could 
always be descried at some point near. He idled list- 
lessly in the sun, lounged on the porch of his bunk-house, 
sat whittling the top bar of the corral fence, and always 
it seemed to Madeline he was watching her. Once, while 
going the rounds with her gardener, she encountered 
Stewart and greeted him kindly. He said little, but he 
was not embarrassed. She did not recognize in his face 
any feature that she remembered. In fact, on each of the 
few occasions when she had met Stewart he had looked 
so different that she had no consistent idea of his facial 
appearance. He was now pale, haggard, drawn. His 
eyes held a shadow through which shone a soft, subdued 
light; and, once having observed this, Madeline fancied 
it was like the light in Majesty’s eyes, in the dumb, wor- 


THE NEW FOREMAN 


117 


shiping eyes of her favorite stag-hound. She told Stew- 
art that she hoped he would soon be in the saddle again, 
and passed on her way. 

That Stewart loved her Madeline could not help but 
see. She endeavored to think of him as one of the many 
who, she was glad to know, liked her. But she could not 
regulate her thoughts to fit the order her intelligence 
prescribed. Thought of Stewart dissociated itself from 
thought of the other cowboys. When she discovered 
this she felt a little surprise and annoyance. Then she 
interrogated herself, and concluded that it was not that 
Stewart was so different from his comrades, but that cir- 
ciunstances made him stand out from them. She recalled 
her meeting with him that night when he had tried to force 
her to marry him. This was unforgetable in itself. She 
called subsequent mention of him, and found it had been 
peculiarly memorable. The man and his actions seemed 
to hinge on events. Lastly, the fact standing clear of 
all others in its relation to her interest was that he had 
been almost ruined, almost lost, and she had saved him. 
That alone was sufficient to explain why she thought of 
him differently. She had befriended, uplifted the other 
cowboys; she had saved Stewart’s life. To be sure, he 
had been a ruffian, but a woman could not save the life 
of even a ruffian without remembering it with gladness. 
Madeline at length decided her interest in Stewart was 
natural, and that her deeper feeling was pity. Perhaps 
the interest had been forced from her; however, she gave 
the pity as she gave everything. 

Stewart recovered his strength, though not in time to 
ride at the spring round-up; and Stillwell discussed with 
Madeline the advisability of making the cowboy his 
foreman. 

'‘Wal, Gene seems to be gettin* along,” said Stillwell. 
‘‘But he ain’t like his old self. I think more of him at 
thet. But where’s his spirit? The boys ’d ride rough- 
shod all over him. Mebbe I’d do best to wait longer now, 
as the slack season is on. All the same, if those vaqueros 


ii8 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


of Don Carlos’s don’t lay low I’ll send Gene over there. 
Thet ’ll wake him up.” 

A few days afterward Stillwell came to Madeline, rub- 
bing his big hands in satisfaction and wearing a grin that 
was enormous. 

"‘Miss Majesty, I reckon before this I’ve said things 
was amazin’ strange. But now Gene SteWart has gone an’ 
done it! Listen to me. Them Greasers down on our 
slope hev been gettin’ prosperous. They’re growin’ hke 
bad weeds. An’ they got a new padre — the little old 
feller from El Cajon, Padre Marcos. Wal, this was all 
right, all the boys thought, except Gene. An’ he got 
blacker ’n thunder an’ roared round like a dehorned bull. 
I was sure glad to see he could get mad again. Then 
Gene haids down the slope fer the church. Nels an’ me 
follered him, thinkin’ he might hev been took sudden with 
a crazy spell or somethin’. He hasn’t never been jest 
right yet since he left off drinkin’. Wal, we run into him 
cornin’ out of the church. We never was so dum- 
founded in our lives. Gene was crazy, all right — he sure 
hed a spell. But it was the kind of a spell he hed thet 
paralyzed us. He ran past us like a streak, an’ we fol- 
lered. We couldn’t ketch him. We heerd him laugh — 
the strangest laugh I ever heerd! You’d thought the 
feller was suddenly made a king. He was like thet feller 
who was tied in a buryin’-sack an’ throwed into the sea, 
an’ cut his way out, an’ swam to the island where the 
treasures was, an’ stood up yellin’, ‘The world is mine!’ 
Wal, when we got up to his bunk-house he was gone. 
He didn’t come back all day an’ all night. Frankie Slade, 
who has a sharp tongue, says Gene hed gone crazy fer 
liquor an’ thet was his finish. Nels was some worried. 
An’ I was sick. 

“Wal, this mavmin’ I went over to Nels’s bunk. Some 
of the fellers was there, all speculatin’ about Gene. Then 
big as life Gene struts round the comer. He wasn’t the 
same Gene. His face was pale an’ his eyes burned like 
fire. He had thet old mocldn’, cool smile, an’ somethin* 


THE NEW FOREMAN 


1 19 

besides thet I couldn’t understand. Frankie Slade up 
an’ made a remark — no wuss than he’d been makin’ fer 
days — an’ Gene tumbled him out of his chair, punched 
him good, walked all over him. Frankie wasn’t hurt so 
much as he was bewildered. ‘Gene,’ he says, ‘what the 
hell struck you?’ An’ Gene says, kind of sweet like, 
‘ Frankie, you may be a nice feller when you’re alone, but 
your talk’s offensive to a gentleman.’ 

After thet what was said to Gene was with a nice 
smile. Now, Miss Majesty, it’s beyond me what to al- 
low for Gene’s sudden change. First off, I thought Padre 
Marcos had converted him. I actooly thought thet. 
But I reckon it’s only Gene Stewart come back — the old 
Gene Stewart an* some. Thet’s all I care about. I’m 
rememberin’ how I once told you thet Gene was the last 
of the cowboys. Perhaps I should hey said he’s the last 
of my kind of cowboys. Wal, Miss Majesty, you’ll be 
appreciatin’ of what I meant from now on.” 

It was also beyond Madeline to account for Gene 
Stewart’s antics, and, making allowance for the old cattle- 
man’s fancy, she did not weigh his remarks very heavily. 
She guessed why Stewart might have been angry at the 
presence of Padre Marcos. Madeline supposed that it 
was rather an unusual circumstance for a cowboy to be 
converted to religious belief. But it was possible. And 
she knew that religious fervor often manifested itself 
in extremes of feeling and action. Most likely, in Stew- 
art’s case, his real manner had been both misunderstood 
and exaggerated. However, Madeline had a curious 
desire, which she did not wholly admit to herself, to see 
the cowboy and make her own deductions. 

The opportunity did not present itself for nearly two 
weeks. Stewart had taken up his duties as foreman, and 
his activities were ceaseless. He was absent most of the 
time, ranging down toward the Mexican line. , When he 
returned Stillwell sent for him. 

This was late in the afternoon of a day in the middle 
of April. Alfred and Florence were with Madeline on 


120 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


the porch. They saw the cowboy turn his horse over to 
one of the Mexican boys at the corral and then come with 
weary step up to the house, beating the dust out of his 
gauntlets. Little streams of gray sand trickled from 
his sombrero as he removed it and bowed to the women. 

Madeline saw the man she remembered, but with a 
singularly different aspect. His skin was brown; his 
eyes were piercing and dark and steady; he carried him- 
self erect; he seemed preoccupied, and there was not a 
trace of embarrassment in his manner. 

“Wal, Gene, I’m sure glad to see you,” Stillwell was 
saying. ‘‘Where do you hail from?” 

“Guadalupe Canon,” replied the cowboy. 

Stillwell whistled. 

“ ‘Way down there! You don’t mean you follered them 
hoss tracks thet far?” 

“All the way from Don Carlos’s rancho across the 
Mexican line. I took Nick Steele with me. Nick is the 
best tracker in the outfit. This trail we were on led along 
the foothill valleys. First we thought whoever made it 
was hunting for water. But they passed two ranches 
without watering. At Seaton’s Wash they dug for water. 
Here they met a pack-train of burros that came d6wn 
the mountain trail. The burros were heavily loaded. 
Horse and burro tracks struck south from Seaton’s to 
the old California emigrant road. We followed the trail 
through Guadalupe Canon and across the border. On 
the way back we stopped at Slaughter’s ranch, where 
the United States cavalry are camping. There we met 
foresters from the Peloncillo forest reserve. If these fel- 
lows knew anything they kept it to themselves. So we 
hit the trail home.” 

“Wal, I reckon you know enough?” inquired Stillwell, 
slowly. 

“I reckon,” replied Stewart. 

“Wal, out with it, then,” said Stillwell, gruffly. “Miss 
Hammond can’t be kept in the dark much longer. Make 
yom report to her.” 


THE NEW FOREMAN 


111 


The cowboy shifted his dark gaze to Madeline. He 
was cool and slow. 

“We’re losing a few cattle on the open range. Night- 
drives by vaqueros. Some of these cattle are driven across 
the valley, others up into the foothills. So far as I can 
find out no cattle are being driven south. So this raiding 
is a blind to fool the cowboys. Don Carlos is a Mexican 
rebel. He located his rancho here a few years ago and 
pretended to raise cattle. All that ^ime he has been 
smuggling arms and ammunition across the border. He 
was for Madero against Diaz. Now he is against 
Madero because he and all the rebels think Madero 
failed to keep his promises. There will be another rev- 
olution. And all the arms go from the States across the 
border. Those burros I ., told about were packed with 
contraband goods.” 

“That’s a matter for the United States cavalry. 
They are patrolling the border,” said Alfred. 

“They can’t stop the smuggling of arms, not down in 
that wild comer,” replied Stewart. 

“What is my — my duty? What has it to do with me?” 
inquired Madeline, somewhat perturbed. 

“Wal, Miss Majesty, I reckon it hasn’t nothing to do 
with you,” put in Stillwell. “Thet’s my bizness an’ 
Stewart’s. But I jest wanted you to know. There might 
be some trouble follerin’ my orders.” 

“Your orders?” 

“I want to send Stewart over to fire Don Carlos an’ 
his vaqueros off the range. They’ve got to go. Don 
Carlos is brealdn’ the law of the United vStates, an’ doin’ 
it on our property an’ with our bosses. Hev I your per- 
mission, Miss Hammond?” 

“Why, assuredly you have! Stillwell, you know what 
to do. Alfred, what do you think best?” 

“It ’ll make trouble, Majesty, but it’s got to be done,” 
replied Alfred. “Here you have a crowd of Eastern 
friends due next month. We want the range to ourselves 
then. But, Stillwell, if you drive those vaqueros off, won’t 


122 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


they hang around in the foothills? I declare they are a 
bad lot.” 

Stillwell’s mind was not at ease. He paced the porch 
with a frown clouding his brow. 

“Gene, I reckon you got this Greaser deal figgered 
better ’n me,” said Stillwell. “Now what do you say?” 

“He’ll have to be forced off,” replied Stewart, quietly. 
“The Don’s pretty slick, but his vaqueros are bad actors. 
It’s just this way. Nels said the other day to me, ‘ Gene, 
I haven’t packed a gun for years until lately, and it feels 
good whenever I meet any of those strange Greasers.’ 
You see, Stillwell, Don Carlos has vaqueros coming and 
going all the time. They’re guerrilla bands, that’s all. 
And they’re getting uglier. There have been several 
shooting-scrapes lately. A rancher named White, who 
lives up the valley, was badly hurt. It’s only a matter 
of time till something stirs up the boys here. Stillwell, 
you know Nels and Monty and Nick.” 

“Sure I know ’em. An’ you’re not mentionin’ one 
more particular cowboy in my outfit,” said Stillwell, with 
a dry chuckle and a glance at Stewart. 

Madeline divined the covert meaning, and a slight chill 
passed over her, as if a cold wind had blown in from the 
hills. 

“Stewart, I see you carry a gun,” she said, pointing to 
a black handle protruding from a sheath swinging low 
along his leather chaps. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Why do you carry it?” she asked. 

“Well,” he said, “it’s not a pretty gun — ^and it’s heavy.” 

She caught the inference. The gun was not an orna- 
ment. His keen, steady, dark gaze caused her vague 
alarm. What had once seemed cool and audacious about 
this cowboy was now cold and powerful and mystical. 
Both her instinct and her intelligence realized the steel 
fiber of the man’s nature. As she was his employer, she 
had the right to demand that he should not do what was 
so chillingly manifest that he might do. But Maddine 


THE NEW FOREMAN 


123 

could not demand. She felt curiously young and weak, 
and the five months of Western life were as if they had 
never been. She now had to do with a question involving 
human life. And the value she placed upon hiiman life 
and its spiritual significance was a matter far from her 
cowboy’s thoughts. A strange idea flashed up. Did she 
place too much value upon all human life? She checked 
that, wondering, almost horrified at herself. And then 
her intuition told her that she possessed a far stronger 
power to move these primitive men than any woman’s 
stem rule or order. 

“Stewart, I do not fully understand what you hint 
that Nels and his comrades might do. Please be frank 
with me. Do you mean Nels would shoot upon little 
provocation?” 

“Miss Hammond, as far as Nels is concerned, shooting 
is now just a matter of his meeting Don Carlos’s vaqueros. 
It’s wonderful what Nels has stood from them, consider- 
ing the Mexicans he’s already killed.” 

“Already killed! Stewart, you are not in earnest?” 
cried Madeline, shocked. 

“I am. Nels has seen hard life along the Arizona bor- 
der. He likes peace as well as any man. But a few years 
of that doesn’t change what the early day^ made of him. 
As for Nick Steele and Monty, they’re just bad men, and 
looking for trouble.” 

“How about yourself, Stewart? Stillwell’s remark was 
not lost upon me,” said Madeline, prompted by curiosity. 

Stewart did not reply. He looked at her in respectful 
silence. In her keen earnestness Madeline saw beneath 
his cool exterior and was all the more baffled. Was there 
a slight, inscmtable, mocking light in his eyes, or was it 
only her imagination? However, the cowboy’s face was 
as hard as flint. 

“Stewart, I have come to love my ranch,” said Made- 
line, slowly, “and I care a great deal for my — my cow- 
boys. It would be dreadful if they were to kill anybody, 
or especially if one of them should be killed.” 


124 the light of western stars 

“Miss Hammond, youVe changed things considerable 
out here, but you can’t change these men. All that’s 
needed to start them is a little trouble. And this Mexican 
revolution is bound to make rough times along some of 
the wilder passes across the border. We’re in line, that’s 
all. And the boys are getting stirred up.” 

“Very well, then, I must accept the inevitable. I am 
facing a rough time. And some of my cowboys cannot 
be checked much longer. But, Stewart, whatever you 
have been in the past, you have changed.” She smiled 
at him, and her voice was singularly sweet and rich. 
“Stillwell has so often referred to you as the last of his 
kind of cowboy. I have just a faint idea of what a wild 
life you have led. Perhaps that fits you to be a leader 
of such rough men. I am no judge of what a leader should 
do in this crisis. My cowboys are entailing risk in my 
employ; my property is not safe; perhaps my life even 
might be endangered. I want to rely upon you, since 
Stillwell believes, and I, too, that you are the man for 
this place. I shall give you no orders. But is it too 
much to ask that you be my kind of a cowboy?” 

Madeline remembered Stewart’s former brutality and 
shame and abject worship, and she measured the great 
change in him by the contrast afforded now in his dark, 
changeless, intent face. 

“Miss Hammond, what kind of a cowboy is that?” he 
asked. 

“I — I don’t exactly know. It is that kind which I feel 
you might be. But I do know that in the problem at 
hand I want your actions to be governed by reason, not 
passion. Human life is not for any man to sacrifice un- 
less in self-defense or in protecting those dependent upon 
him. What Stillwell and you hinted makes me afraid 
of Nels and Nick Steele and Monty. Cannot they be 
controlled? I want to feel that they will not go gunning 
for Don Carlos’s men. I want to avoid all violence. And 
yet when my guests come I want to feel that they will be 
safe from danger or fright or even annoyance. May I 


THE NEW FOREMAN 


125 


not rely wholly upon you, Stewart? Just trust you to 
manage these obstreperous cowboys and protect my prop- 
erty and Alfred’s, and take care of us — of me, until this 
revolution is ended? I have never had a day’s worry 
since I bought the ranch. It is not that I want to shirk 
my responsibilities; it is that I like being happy. May I 
put so much faith in you?” 

“I hope so. Miss Hammond,” replied Stewart. It was 
an instant response, but none the less fraught with con- 
sciousness of responsibility. He waited a moment, and 
then, as neither Stillwell nor Madeline offered further 
speech, he bowed and turned down the path, his long spurs 
clinking in the gravel. 

“Wal, wal,” exSaimed Stillwell, “thet’s no little job 
you give him. Miss Majesty.” 

“It was a woman’s omning, Stillwell,” said Alfred. 
“My sister used to be a wonder at getting her own way 
when we were kids. Just a smile or two, a few sweet 
words or turns of thought, and she had what she 
wanted.” 

“Al, what a character to give me!” protested Made- 
line. “Indeed, I was deeply in earnest with Stewart. I 
do not understand just why, but I trust him. He seems 
like iron and steel. Then I was a little frightened at the 
prospect of trouble with the vaqueros. Both you and Still- 
well have influenced me to look upon Stewart as invalu- 
able. I thought it best to confess my utter helplessness 
and to look to him for support.” 

“Majesty, whatever actuated you, it was a stroke of 
diplomacy,” replied her brother. “Stewart has got good 
stuff in him. He was down and out. Well, he’s made a 
game fight, and it looks as if he’d win. Trusting him, 
giving him responsibility, relying upon him, was the surest 
way to strengthen his hold upon himself. Then that little 
touch of sentiment about being your kind of cowboy 
and protecting you — well, if Gene Stewart doesn’t de- 
velop into an Argus-eyed knight I’ll say I don’t know cow- 
boys. But, Majesty, remember, he’s a composite of 


126 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


tiger breed and forked lightning, and don’t imagine he 
has failed you if he gets into a fight.” 

“I’ll sure tell you what Gene Stewart will do,” said 
Florence. “Don’t I know cowboys? Why, they used to 
take me up on their horses when I was a baby. Gene 
Stewart will be the kind of cowboy your sister said he 
might be, whatever that is. She may not know and we 
may not guess, but he knows.” 

“Wal, Flo, there you hit plumb center,” replied the old 
cattleman. “An’ I couldn’t be gladder if he was my own 
son.” 


127 


X 

DON Carlos’s vaqueros 

E arly the following morning Stewart, with a com- 
pany of cowboys, departed for Don Carlos’s rancho. 
As the day wore on without any report from him, Stillwell 
appeared to grow more at ease; and at nightfall he told 
Madeline that he guessed there was now no reason for 
concern. 

“Wal, though it’s sure amazin’ strange,” he continued, 
‘‘I’ve been worryin’ some about how we was goin’ to fire 
Don Carlos. But Gene has a way of doin’ things.” 

Next day Stillwell and Alfred decided to ride over to 
Don Carlos’s place, taking Madeline and Florence with 
them, and upon the return trip to stop at Alfred’s ranch. 
They started in the cool, gray dawn, and after three hours’ 
riding, as the sun began to get bright, they entered a 
mesquite grove, surrounding corrals and bams, and a 
number of low, squat buildings and a huge, rambling 
stmcture, all built of adobe and mostly cmmbling to 
ruin. Only one green spot relieved the bald red of grounds 
and walls; and this evidently was made by the spring 
which had given both value and fame to Don Carlos’s 
range. The approach to the house was through a wide 
courtyard, bare, stony, hard packed, with hitching-rails 
and watering-troughs in front of a long porch. Several 
dusty, tired horses stood with drooping heads and bridles 
down, their wet flanks attesting to travel just ended. 

“Wal, dog-gone it, Al, if there ain’t Pat Hawe’s hoss 
I’ll eat it,” exclaimed Stillwell. 

“What’s Pat want here, anyhow?” growled Alfred. 


128 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


No one was in sight; but Madeline heard loud voices 
coming from the house. Stillwell dismounted at the 
porch and stalked in at the door. Alfred leaped off his 
horse, helped Florence and Madeline down, and, bidding 
them rest and wait on the porch, he followed Stillwell. 

“I hate these Greaser places,” said Florence, with a 
grimace. ^‘They’re so mysterious and creepy. Just 
watch now! They’ll be dark-skinned, beady-eyed, soft- 
footed Greasers slip right up out of the ground! There’ll 
be an ugly face in every door and window and crack.” 

“It’s like a huge bam with its characteristic odor per- 
meated by tobacco smoke,” replied Madeline, sitting 
down beside Florence. “I don’t think very much of this 
end of my purchase. Florence, im’t that Don Carlos’s 
black horse over there in the corral?” 

“It sure is. Then the Don’s heah yet. I wish we 
hadn’t been in such a hurry to come over. There! that 
doesn’t sound encouraging.” 

From the corridor came the rattling of spurs, tramping 
of boots, and loud voices. Madeline detected Alfred’s 
quick notes when he was annoyed: “We’ll rustle back 
home, then,” he said. The answer came, “No!” Made- 
line recognized Stewart’s voice, and she quickly straight- 
ened up. “I won’t have them in here,” went on Alfred. 

“Outdoors or in, they’ve got to be with us!” replied 
Stewart, sharply. “Listen, Al,” came the boom of Still- 
well’s big voice, “now that we’ve butted in over hyar with 
the girls, you let Stewart mn things.” 

Then a crowd of men tramped pell-mell out upon the 
porch. Stewart, dark-browed and somber, was in the 
lad. Nels hung close to him, and Madeline’s quick 
glance saw that Nels had undergone some indescribable 
change. The grinning, brilliant-eyed Don Carlos came 
jostling out beside a gaunt, sharp-featured man wearing 
a silver shield. This, no doubt, was Pat Hawe. In the 
background behind Stillwell and Alfred stood Nick 
Steele, head and shoulders over a number of mqueros 
and cowboys. 


DON CARLOSES VAQUEROS 12 ^ 

“Miss Hammond, I’m sorry you came,” said Stewart, 
bluntly. “We’re in a muddle here. I’ve insisted that 
you and Flo be kept close to us. I’ll explain later. If 
you can’t stop yoiu* ears I beg you to overlook rough 
talk.” 

With that he turned to the men behind him: “Nick, 
take Booly, go back to Monty and the boys. Fetch out 
that stuff. AU of it. Rustle, nowi” 

Stillwell and Alfred disengaged themselves from the 
crowd to take up positions in front of Madeline and Flor- 
ence. Pat Hawe leaned against a post and insolently 
ogled Madeline and then Florence. Don Carlos pressed 
forward. His whole figrue filled Madeline’s reluctant but 
fascinated eyes. He wore tight velveteen breeches, with 
a heavy fold down the outside seam, which was ornamented 
with silver buttons. Round his waist was a sash, and a 
belt with fringed holster, from which protruded a pearl- 
handled gun. A vest or waistcoat, richly embroidered, 
partly concealed a blouse of silk and wholly revealed a 
silken scarf round his neck. His swarthy face showed 
dark lines, like cords, under the surface. His little eyes 
were exceedingly prominent and glittering. To Made- 
line his face seemed to be a bold, handsome mask through 
which his eyes piercingly betrayed the evil nature of the 
man. 

He bowed low with elaborate and sinuous grace. His 
smile revealed brilliant teeth, enhanced the brillance of 
his eyes. He slowly spread deprecatory hands. 

“Senoritas, I beg a thousand pardons,” he said. How 
strange it was for Madeline to hear English spoken in a 
soft, whiningly sweet accent! “The gracious hospitality 
of Don Carlos has passed with his house.” 

Stewart stepped forward and, thrusting Don Carlos 
aside, he called, “Make way, there!” 

The crowd fell back to the tramp of heavy boots. 
Cowboys appeared staggering out of the corridor with 
long boxes. These they placed side by side upon the 
floor of the porch. 


130 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

'‘Now, Hawe, we’ll proceed with our business,” said 
Stewart. “You see these boxes, don’t you?” 

“I reckon I see a good many things round hyar,” re- 
plied Hawe, meaningly. 

“Well, do you intend to open these boxes upon my 
say-so?” 

“No!” retorted Hawe. “It’s not my place to meddle 
with property as come by express an’ all accounted fer 
regular.” 

“You call yourself a sheriff!” exclaimed Stewart, 
scornfully. 

“Mebbe you’ll think so before long,” rejoined Hawe, 
sullenly. 

“I’ll open them. Here, one of you boys, knock the 
tops off these boxes,” ordered Stewart. “No, not you, 
Monty. You use your eyes. Let Booly handle the ax. 
Rustle, now!” 

Monty Price had jumped out of the crowd into the 
middle of the porch. The manner in which he gave way 
to Booly and faced the vaguer os was not significant of 
friendliness or trust. 

“Stewart, you’re dead wrong to bust open them boxes. 
Thet’s ag’in’ the law,” protested Hawe, tr5dng to interfere. 

Stewart pushed him back. Then Don Carlos, who had 
been stunned by the appearance of the boxes, suddenly 
became active in speech and person. Stewart thrust him 
back also. The Mexican’s excitement increased. He 
wildly gesticulated; he exclaimed shrilly in Spanish. 
When, however, the lids were wrenched open and an in- 
side packing tom away he grew rigid and silent. Made- 
line raised herself behind Stillwell to see that the boxes 
were full of rifles and ammunition. 

“There, Hawe! What did I tell you?” demanded 
Stewart. “ I came over here to take charge of this ranch. 
I found these boxes hidden in an unused room. I sus- 
pected what they were. Contraband goods!” 

“Wal, supposin’ they are? I don’t see any call fer sech 
all-fired fuss as you’re makin’. Stewart, I calkilate you’re 


DON CARLOSES VAQUEROS 13 1 

some stuck on your new job an’ want to make a big show 
before — ” 

“Hawe, stop slinging that kind of talk,” interrupted 
Stewart. “You got too free with your mouth once be- 
fore! Now here, I’m supposed to be consulting an officer 
of the law. Will you take charge of these contraband 
goods?” 

“Say, you’re holdin’ on high an’ mighty,” replied Hawe, 
in astonishment that was plainly pretended. “What ’re 
you drivin’ at?” 

Stewart muttered an imprecation. He took several 
swift strides across the porch; he held out his hands to 
Stillwell as if to indicate the hopelessness of intelligent 
and reasonable arbitration; he looked at Madeline with 
a glance eloquent of his regret that he could not handle 
the situation to please her. Then as he wheeled he came 
face to face with Nels, who had slipped forward out of 
the crowd. 

Madeline gathered serious import from the steel-blue 
meaning flash of eyes whereby Nels communicated some- 
thing to Stewart. Whatever that something was, it dis- 
pelled Stewart’s impatience. A slight movement of his 
hand brought Monty Price forward with a jump. In 
these sudden jumps of Monty’s there was a suggestion 
of restrained ferocity. Then Nels and Monty lined up 
behind Stewart. It was a deliberate action, even to 
Madeline, unmistakably formidable. Pat Hawe’s face 
took on an ugly look; his eyes had a reddish gleam. Don 
Carlos added a pale face and extreme nervousness to his 
former expressions of agitation. The cowboys edged 
away from the vaqueros and the bronzed, bearded horse- 
men who were evidently Hawe’s assistants. 

“I’m driving at this,” spoke up Stewart, presently; 
and now he was slow and caustic. “Here’s contraband 
of war! Hawe, do you get that? Arms and ammunition 
for the rebels across the border ! I charge you as an officer 
to confiscate these goods and to arrest the smuggler — 
Don Carlos.” 


132 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

These words of Stewart’s precipitated a riot among 
Don Carlos and his followers, and they surged wildly 
around the sheriff. There was an upfiinging of brown, 
clenching hands, a shrill, jabbering babel of Mexican 
voices. The crowd around Don Carlos grew louder and 
denser with the addition of armed vaqueros and bare- 
footed stable-boys and dusty-booted herdsmen and 
blanketed Mexicans, the last of whom suddenly slipped 
from doors and windows and round comers. It was a 
motley assemblage. The laced, fringed, ornamented 
voqueros presented a sharp contrast to the bare-legged, 
sandal-footed boys and the ragged herders. Shrill cries, 
evidently from Don Carlos, somewhat quieted the com- 
motion. Then Don Carlos could be heard addressing 
Sheriff Hawe in an exhortation of mingled English and 
Spanish. He denied, he avowed, he proclaimed, and all 
in rapid, passionate utterance. He tossed his black hair 
in his vehemence; he waved his fists and stamped the 
floor; he rolled his glittering eyes; he twisted his thin 
lips into a hundred different shapes, and like a cornered 
wolf showed snarling white teeth. 

It seemed to Madeline that Don Carlos denied knowl- 
edge of the boxes of contraband goods, then knowledge 
of their real contents, then knowledge of their destination, 
and, finally, everything except that they were there in 
sight, damning witnesses to somebody’s complicity in the 
breaking of neutrality laws. Passionate as had been his 
denial of all this, it was as nothing compared to his de- 
nunciation of Stewart. 

“Senor Stewart, he keel my vaguer o!” shouted Don 
Carlos, as, sweating and spent, he concluded his arraign- 
ment of the cowboy. “Him you must arrest! Senor 
Stewart a bad man! He keel my vaguer 

“Do you hear thet?” yelled Hawe. “The Don’s got 
you figgered fer thet little job at El Cajon last fall.” 

The clamor burst into a roar. Hawe began shaking 
his finger in Stewart’s face and hoarsely shouting. Then 
a lithe young vaguero, swift as an Indian, glided under 


133 


DON CARLOS'S VAQUEROS 

Hawe’s uplifted arm. Whatever the action he intended, 
he was too late for its execution. Stewart lunged out, 
struck the vaquero, and knocked him off the porch. As 
he fell a dagger glittered in the sunlight and rolled clink- 
ing over the stones. The man went down hard and did 
not move. With the same abrupt violence, and a manner 
of contempt, Stewart threw Hawe off the porch, then Don 
Carlos, who, being less supple, fell heavily. Then the 
mob backed before Stewart’s rush until all were down 
in the courtyard. 

The shuffling of feet ceased, the clanking of spurs, and 
the shouting. Nels and Monty, now reinforced by Nick 
Steele, were as shadows of Stewart, so closely did they 
follow him. Stewart waved them back and stepped 
down into the yard. He was absolutely fearless; but 
what struck Madeline so keenly was his magnificent dis- 
dain. Manifestly, he knew the nature of the men with 
whom he was dealing. From the look of him it was 
natural for Madeline to expect them to give way before 
him, which they did, even Hawe and his attendants 
sullenly retreating. 

Don Carlos got up to confront Stewart. The prostrate 
vaquero stirred and moaned, but did not rise. 

“You needn’t jibber Spanish to me,” said Stewart. 
“You can talk American, and you can understand Amer- 
ican. If you start a rough-house here you and your 
Greasers will be cleaned up. You’ve got to leave this 
ranch. You can have the stock, the packs and traps in 
the second corral. There’s grub, too. Saddle up and 
hit the trail. Don Carlos, I’m dealing more than square 
with you. You’re lying about these boxes of guns and 
cartridges. You’re breaking the laws of my country, and 
you’re doing it on property in my charge. If I let smug- 
gling go on here I’d be implicated myself. Now you get 
off the range. If you don’t I’ll have the United States 
cavalry here in six hours, and you can gamble they’ll 
get what my cowboys leave of you.” 

Don Carlos was either a capital actor and gratefully 


134 the light of western stars 

relieved at Stewart’s leniency or else he was thoroughly 
cowed by references to the troops. 

“5z, Senor! Gracias, Senor!” he exclaimed; and then, 
turning away, he called to his men. They hurried after 
him, while the fallen vaquero got to his feet with Stewart’s 
help and staggered across the courtyard. In a moment 
they were gone, leaving Hawe and his several comrades 
behind. 

Hawe was spitefully ejecting a wad of tobacco from his 
mouth and swearing in an undertone about “white-livered 
Greasers.” He cocked his red eye speculatively at 
Stewart. 

“Wal, I reckon as you’re so hell-bent on doin’ it up 
brown thet you’ll try to fire me off’n the range, too?” 

“If I ever do, Pat, you’ll need to be carried off,” replied 
Stewart. ^‘Just now I’m politely inviting you and your 
deputy sheriffs to leave.” 

“We’U go; but we’re cornin’ back one of these days, 
an’ when we do we’ll put you in irons.” 

“Hawe, if you’ve got it in that bad for me, come over 
here in the corral and let’s fight it out.” 

“I’m an officer, an’ I don’t fight outlaws an’ sich except 
when I hev to make arrests.” 

“Officer! You’re a disgrace to the county. If you 
ever did get irons on me you’d take me some place out 
of sight, shoot me, and then swear you killed me in self- 
defense. It wouldn’t be the first time you pulled that 
trick, Pat Hawe.” 

“Ho, ho!” laughed Hawe, derisively. Then he started 
toward the horses. 

Stewart’s long arm shot out, his hand clapped on Hawe’s 
shoulder, spinning him round like a top. 

“You’re leaving, Pat, but before you leave you’ll come 
out with your play or you’ll crawl,” said Stewart. 

‘ ‘ You’ve got it in for me, man to man. Speak up now and 
prove you’re not the cowardly skunk I’ve always thought 
you. I’ve called your hand.” 

Pat Hawe’s face turned a blackish-purple hue. 


135 


DON CARLOS'S VAQUEROS 

“You can jest bet thet I’ve got it in fer you,” he 
shouted, hoarsely. “You’re only a low-down cow-puncher. 
You never hed a dollar or a decent job till you was mixed 
up with thet Hammond woman — ” 

Stewart’s hand flashed out and hit Hawe’s face in a 
ringing slap. The sheriff’s head jerked back, his som- 
brero fell to the ground. As he bent over to reach it his 
hand shook, his arm shook, his whole body shook. 

Monty Price jumped straight forward and crouched 
down with a strange, low cry. 

Stewart seemed all at once rigid, bending a little. 

“5ay Miss Hammond, if there’s occasion to use her 
name,” said Stewart, in a voice that seemed coolly pleas- 
ant, yet had a deadly undernote. 

Hawe did a moment’s battle with strangling fury, 
which he conquered in some measure. 

“I said you was a low-down, drunken cow-puncher, a 
tough as damn near a desperado as we ever hed on the bor- 
der,” went on Hawe, deliberately. His speech appeared 
to be addressed to Stewart, although his flame-pointed 
eyes were riveted upon Monty Price. “I know you 
plugged that vaquero last fall, an’ when I git my proof 
I’m cornin’ after you.” 

“That’s all right, Hawe. You can call me what you 
like, and you can come after me when you like,” replied 
Stewart. “But you’re going to get in bad with me. 
You’re in bad now with Monty and Nels. Pretty soon 
you’ll queer yourself with all the cowboys and the ranchers, 
too. If that don’t put sense into you — Here, listen to 
this. You knew what these boxes contained. You know 
Don Carlos has been smuggling arms and ammunition 
across the border. You know he is hand and glove with 
the rebels. You’ve been wearing blinders, and it has 
been to your interest. Take a hunch from me. That’s 
all. Light out now, and the less we see of yoiu handsome 
mug the better we’ll like you.” 

Muttering, cursing, pallid of face, Hawe climbed astride 
his horse. His comrades followed suit. Certain it ap- 


136 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

peared that the sheriff was contending with more than 
fear and wrath. He must have had an irresistible im- 
pulse to fling more invective and threat upon Stewart, 
but he was speechless. Savagely he spurred his horse, 
and as it snorted and leaped he turned in his saddle, 
shaking his fist. His comrades led the way, with their 
horses clattering into a canter. They disappeared through 
the gate. 

When, later in the day, Madeline and Florence, accom- 
panied by Alfred and Stillwell, left Don Carlos’s ranch 
it was not any too soon for Madeline. The inside of the 
Mexican’s home was more unprepossessing and uncom- 
fortable than the outside. The halls were dark, the rooms 
huge, empty, and musty; and there was an air of silence 
and secrecy and mystery about them most fitting to the 
character Florence had bestowed upon the place. 

On the other hand, Alfred’s ranch-house, where the 
party halted to spend the night, was picturesquely lo- 
cated, small and cozy, camplike in its arrangement, and 
altogether agreeable to Madeline. 

The day’s long rides and the exciting events nad weaned 
her. She rested while Florence and the two men got 
supper. During the meal Stillwell expressed satisfac- 
tion over the good riddance of the vaqueros, and with 
his usual optimism trusted he had seen the last of them. 
Alfred, too, took a decidedly favorable view of the day’s 
proceedings. However, it was not lost upon Madeline 
that Florence appeared unusually quiet and thoughtful. 
Madeline wondered a little at the cause. She remembered 
that Stewart had wanted to come with them, or detail a 
few cowboys to accompany them, but Alfred had laughed 
at the idea and would have none of it. 

/ After supper Alfred monopolized the conversation by 
describing what he wanted to do to improve his home 
before he and Florence were married. 

Then at an early hour they all retired. 

Madeline’s deep slumbers were disturbed by a pounding 


DON CARLOSES VAQUEROS 137 

upon the wall, and then by Florence’s crying out in answer 
to a call: 

“Get up! Throw some clothes on and come out!” 

It was Alfred’s voice. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Florence, as she slipped 
out of bed. 

“Alfred, is there anything wrong?” added Madeline, 
sitting up. 

The room was dark as pitch, but a faint glow seemed 
to mark the position of the window. 

“Oh, nothing much,” replied Alfred. “Only Don 
Carlos’s rancho going up in smoke.” 

“Fire!” cried Florence, sharply. 

“You’ll think so when you see it. Hurry out. Maj- 
esty, old girl, now you won’t have to tear down that 
heap of adobe, as you threatened. I don’t believe a wall 
will stand after that fire.” 

“Well, I’m glad of it,” said Madeline. “A good healthy 
fire will purify the atmosphere over there and save me 
expense. Ugh! that haunted rancho got on my nerves! 
Florence, I do believe you’ve appropriated part of 
my riding-habit. Doesn’t Alfred have lights in this 
house?” 

Florence laughingly helped Madeline to dress. Then 
they hurriedly stumbled over chairs, and, passing through 
the dining-room, went out upon the porch. 

Away to the westward, low down along the horizon, 
she saw leaping red flames and wind-sWept columns of 
smoke. 

Stillwell appeared greatly perturbed. 

“Al, I’m lookin’ fer that ammunition to blow up,” he 
said. “There was enough of it to blow the roof off the 
rancho.” 

“Bill, surely the cowboys would get that stuff out the 
first thing,” replied Alfred, anxiously. 

“I reckon so. But all the same. I’m worryin’. Mebbe 
there wasn’t time. Supposin’ thet powder went off as 
the boys was goin’ fer it or canyin’ it out! We’ll know 


138 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

soon. If the explosion doesn’t come quick now we can 
figger the bo}^ got the boxes out.” 

For the next few moments there was a silence of sus- 
tained and painful suspense. Florence gripped Made- 
line’s arm. Madeline felt a fullness in her throat and a 
rapid beating of her heart. Presently she was relieved 
with the others when Stillwell declared the danger of an 
explosion needed to be feared no longer. 

“Sure you can gamble on Gene Stewart,” he added. 

The night happened to be partly cloudy, with broken 
rifts showing the moon, and the wind blew unusually 
strong. The brightness of the fire seemed subdued. It 
was like a huge bonfire smothered by some great covering, 
penetrated by different, widely separated points of flame. 
These comers of flame flew up, curling in the wind, and 
then died down. Thus the scene was constantly changing 
from dull light to dark. There came a moment when a 
blacker shade overspread the wide area of flickering gleams 
and then obliterated them. Night enfolded the scene. 
The moon peeped a curved yellow rim from under broken 
clouds. To all appearances the fire had burned itself out. 
But suddenly a pinpoint of light showed where all had 
been dense black. It grew and became long and sharp. 
It moved. It had life. It leaped up. Its color warmed 
from white to red. Then from all about it burst flame on 
flame, to leap into a great changing pillar of fire that 
climbed high and higher. Huge funnels of smoke, yellow, 
black, white, all tinged with the color of fire, slanted 
skyward, drifting away on the wind. 

“Wal, I reckon we won’t hev the good of them two 
thousand tons of alfalfa we was figgerin’ on,” remarked 
Stillwell. 

“Ah! Then that last outbreak of fire was burning 
hay,” said Madeline. “I do not regret the rancho. But 
it’s too bad to lose such a quantity of good feed for the 
stock.” 

“It’s lost, an’ no mistake. The fire’s dyin’ as quick as 
she flared up. Wal, I hope none of the boys got risky to 


139 


DON CARLOS'S FAQUEROS 

save a saddle or blanket. Monty — he’s hell on runnin’ 
the gantlet of fire. He’s like a boss that’s jest been 
dragged out of a bumin’ stable an’ runs back sure locoed. 
There! She’s smolderin’ down now. Reckon we-all 
might jest as well turn in again. It’s only three o’clock.” 

“I wonder how the fire originated?” remarked Alfred. 
“Some careless cowboy’s cigarette, I’ll bet.” 

Stillwell rolled out his laugh. 

“Al, you sure are a free-hearted, trustin’ feller. I’m 
some doubtin’ the cigarette idee; but you can gamble if 
it was a cigarette it belonged to a cunnin’ vaquero, an’ 
wasn’t dropped accident-like.” 

“Now, Bill, you don’t mean Don Carlos burned the 
rancho?” ejaculated Alfred, in mingled amaze and anger. 

Again the old cattleman laughed. 

“Powerful strange to say, my friend, ole Bill means 
jest thet.” 

“Of course Don Carlos set that fire,” put in Florence, 
with spirit. “Al, if you live out heah a hundred years 
you’ll never learn that Greasers are treacherous. I know 
Gene Stewart suspected something underhand. That’s 
why he wanted us to hurry away. That’s why he put 
me on the black horse of Don Carlos’s. He wants that 
horse for himself, and feared the Don would steal or shoot 
him. And you, Bill Stillwell, you’re as bad as Al. You 
never distrust anybody till it’s too late. You’ve been 
singing ever since Stewart ordered the vaqueros off the 
range. But you sure haven’t been thinking.” 

“ Wal, now, Flo, you needn’t pitch into me jest because 
I hev a natural Christian spirit,” replied Stillwell, much 
aggrieved. “I reckon I’ve hed enough trouble in my 
life so’s not to go lookin’ fer more. Wal, I’m sorry about 
the hay bumin’. But mebbe the boys saved the stock. 
An’ as fer that ole adobe house of dark holes an’ under- 
ground passages, so long’s Miss Majesty doesn’t mind, 
I’m dam glad it burned. Come, let’s all turn in again. 
Somebody ’ll ride over early an’ tell us what’s what.” 

Madeline awakened early, but not so early as the others, 


140 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

who were up and had breakfast ready when she went into 
the dining-room. Stillwell was not in an amiable frame 
of mind. The furrows of worry lined his broad brow and 
he continually glanced at his watch, and growled because 
the cowboys were so late in riding over with the news. 
He gulped his breakfast, and while Madeline and the 
others ate theirs he tramped up and down the porch. 
Madeline noted that Alfred grew nervous and restless. 
Presently he left the table to join Stillwell outside. 

^They’ll slope off to Don Carlos’s rancho and leave us 
to ride home alone,” observed Florence. 

“Do you mind?” questioned Madeline. 

“No, I don’t exactly mind; we’ve got the fastest horses 
in this country. I’d like to run that big black devil off 
his legs. No, I don’t mind; but I’ve no hankering for a 
situation Gene Stewart thinks — ” 

Florence began disconnectedly, and she ended evasively. 
Madeline did not press the point, although she had some 
sense of misgiving. Stillwell tramped in, shaking the 
floor with his huge boots; Alfred followed him, carrying 
a field-glass. 

“Not a hoss in sight,” complained Stillwell. “Some- 
thin’ wrong over Don Carlos’s way. Miss Majesty, it ’ll 
be jest as well fer you an’ Flo to hit the home trail. We 
can telephone over an’ see that the boys know you’re 
cornin’.” 

Alfred, standing in the door, swept the gray valley with 
his field-glass. 

“Bill, I see running stock-horses or cattle; I can’t make 
out which. I guess we’d better rustle over there.” 

Both men hurried out, and while the horses were being 
brought up and saddled Madeline and Florence put away 
the breakfast-dishes, then speedily donned spurs, som- 
breros, and gauntlets. 

“Here are the horses ready,” called Alfred. “Flo, 
that black Mexican horse is a prince.” 

The girls went out in time to hear Stillwell’s good-by 
as he mounted and spurred away. Alfred went through 


DON CARLOS'S FAQUEROS 141 

the motions of assisting Madeline and Florence to mount, 
which assistance they always flouted, and then he, too, 
swung up astride. 

“I guess it’s all right,” he said, rather dubiously. 
“You really must not go over toward Don Carlos’s. It’s 
only a few miles home.” 

“Sure it’s all right. We can ride, can’t we?” retorted 
Florence. “Better have a care for yourself, going off over 
there to mix in goodness knows what.” 

Alfred said good-by, spurred his horse, and rode away. 

“If Bill didn’t forget to telephone!” exclaimed Florence. 
“I declare he and A1 were sure rattled.” 

Florence dismotmted and went into the house. She 
left the door open. Madeline had some difficulty in hold- 
ing Majesty. It struck Madeline that Florence stayed 
rather long indoors. Presently she came out with sober 
face and rather tight lips. 

“I couldn’t get anybody on the ’phone. No answer. 
I tried a dozen times.” 

“Why, Florence!” Madeline was more concerned by 
the girl’s looks than by the information she imparted. 

“The wire’s been cut,” said Florence. Her gray glance 
swept swiftly after Alfred, who was now far out of earshot. 
“I don’t like this a little bit. Heah’s where I’ve got to 
‘Agger,’ as Bill says.” 

She pondered a moment, then hurried into the house, 
to return presently with the field-glass that Alfred had 
used. With this she took a survey of the valley, particu- 
larly in the direction of Madeline’s ranch-house. This 
was hidden by low, rolling ridges which were quite close by. 

“Anyway, nobody in that direction can see us leave 
heah,” she mused. “There’s mesquite on the ridges. 
We’ve got cover long enough to save us till we can see 
what’s ahead.” 

“Florence, what — what do you expect?” asked Made- 
line, nervously. 

“I don’t know. There’s never any telling about 
Greasers. I wish Bill and A1 hadn’t left us. Still, come 


142 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

to think of that, they couldn’t help us much in case of a 
chase. We’d run right away from them. Besides, they’d 
shoot. I guess I’m as well as satisfied that we’ve got the 
job of getting home on our own hands. We don’t dare 
follow A1 toward Don Carlos’s ranch. We know there’s 
trouble over there. So all that’s left is to hit the trail for 
home. Come, let’s ride. You stick like a Spanish needle 
to me.” 

A heavy growth of mesquite covered the top of the 
first ridge, and the trail went through it. Florence took 
the lead, proceeding cautiously, and as soon as she could 
see over the stimmit she used the field-glass. Then she 
went on. Madeline, following closely, saw down the slope 
of the ridge to a bare, wide, grassy hollow, and onward 
to more rolling land, thick with cactus and mesquite. 
Florence appeared cautious, deliberate, yet she lost no 
time. She was ominously silent. Madeline’s misgivings 
took definite shape in the fear of vaqueros in ambush. 

Upon the ascent of the third ridge, which Madeline 
remembered was the last uneven ground between the 
point she had reached and home, Florence exercised even 
more guarded care in advancing. Before she reached 
the top of this ridge she dismounted, looped her bridle 
round a dead snag, and, motioning Madeline to wait, she 
slipped ahead through the mesquite out of sight. Made- 
line waited, anxiously listening and watching. Certain 
it was that she could not see or hear anything alarming. 
The sun began to have a touch of heat ; the morning breeze 
rustled the thin mesquite foliage; the deep magenta of a 
cactus flower caught her eye; a long-tailed, cruel-beaked, 
brown bird sailed so close to her she could have touched 
it with her whip. But she was only vaguely aware of 
these things. She was watching for Florence, listening 
for some sound fraught with untoward meaning. All of 
a sudden she saw Majesty’s ears were held straight up. 
Then Florence’s face, now strangely white, showed round 
the turn of the trail. 

“ ’S-s-s-sh!” whispered Florence, holding up a warning 


143 


DON CARLOS'S VAQUEROS 

finger. She reached the black horse and petted him, 
evidently to still an uneasiness he manifested. “We’re 
in for it,” she went on. “A whole bunch of vaqueros hid- 
ing among the mesquite over the ridge! They’ve not 
seen or heard us yet. We’d better risk riding ahead, cut 
off the trail, and beat them to the ranch. Madeline, 
you’re white as death! Don’t faint now!'" 

“I shall not faint. But you frighten me. Is there 
danger? What shall we do?” 

“There’s danger. Madeline, I wouldn’t decgjve you,” 
went on Florence, in an earnest whisper. “Things have 
turned out just as Gene Stewart hinted. Oh, we should — 
A1 should have listened to Gene! I believe — I’m afraid 
Gene knew!'* 

“Knew what?” asked Madeline. 

“ Never mind now. Listen. We daren’t take the back 
trail. We’ll go on. I’ve a scheme to fool that grinning 
Don Carlos. Get down, Madeline — hurry.” 

Madeline dismounted. 

“Give me your white sweater. Take it off — And 
that white hat! Hurry, Madeline.” 

“Florence, what on earth do you mean?” cried Made- 
line. 

“Not so loud,” whispered the other. Her gray eyes 
snapped. She had divested herself of sombrero and jacket, 
which she held out to Madeline. “Heah. Take these. 
Give me yours. Then get up on the black. I’ll ride 
Majesty. Rustle now, Madeline. This is no time to 
talk.” 

“But, dear, why — why do you want — ? Ah! You’re 
going to make the vaqueros take you for me!” 

“You guessed it. Will you — ” 

“I shall not allow you to do anything of the kind,” re- 
turned Madeline. 

It was then that Florence’s face, changing, took on the 
hard, stem sharpness so typical of a cowboy’s. Made- 
line had caught glimpses of that expression in Alfred’s 
face, and on Stewart’s when he was silent, and on Still- 


144 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

well’s always. It was a look of iron and fire — unchange- 
able, unquenchable will. There was even much of vio- 
lence in the swift action whereby Florence compelled 
Madeline to the change of apparel. 

“It ’d been my idea, anyhow, if Stewart hadn’t told me 
to do it,” said Florence, her words as swift as her hands. 
“Don Carlos is after you — you, Miss Madeline Hammond! 
He wouldn’t ambush a trail for any one else. He’s not 
killing cowboys these days. He wants you for some rea- 
son. So Gene thought, and now I believe him. Well, 
we’ll know for sure in five minutes. You ride the black; 
I’ll ride Majesty. We’ll slip round through the brush, 
out of sight and sound, till we can break out into the 
open. Then we’ll split. You make straight for the ranch. 
I’ll cut loose for the valley where Gene said positively the 
cowboys were with the cattle. The vaqueros will take me 
for you. They all know those striking white things you 
wear. They’ll chase me. They’ll never get anywhere 
near me. And you’ll be on a fast horse. He can take 
you home ahead of any vaqueros. But you won’t be chased. 
I’m staking all on that. Trust me, Madeline. If it were 
only my calculation, maybe I’d — It’s because I remem- 
ber Stewart. That cowboy knows things. Come, this 
heah’s the safest and smartest way to fool Don Carlos.” 
Madeline felt herself more forced than persuaded into 
acquiescence. She mounted the black and took up the 
bridle. In another moment she was guiding her horse 
off the trail in the tracks of Majesty. Florence led off at 
right angles, threading a slow passage through the mes- 
quite. She favored sandy patches and open aisles be- 
tween the trees, and was careful not to break a branch. 
Often she stopped to listen. This detour of perhaps half 
a mile brought Madeline to where she could see open 
ground, the ranch-house only a few miles off, and the cattle 
dotting the valley. She had not lost her courage, but 
it was certain that these familiar sights somewhat light- 
ened the pressure upon her breast. Excitement gripped 
her. The shrill whistle of a horse made both the black 


DON CARLOSES VAQUEROS 145 

and Majesty jump. Florence quickened the gait down 
the slope. Soon Madeline saw the edge of the brush, the 
gray>bleached grass and level ground. 

Florence waited at the opening between the low trees. 
She gave Madeline a quick, bright glance. 

“All over but the ride! That ’ll sure be easy. Bolt 
now and keep your nerve!” 

When Florence wheeled the fiery roan and screamed in 
his ear Madeline seemed suddenly to grow lax and help- 
less. The big horse leaped into thundering action. This 
was memorable of Bonita of the flying hair and the 
wild night ride. Florence’s hair streamed on the wind 
and shone gold in the sunlight. Yet Madeline saw her 
with the same thrill with which she had seen the wild- 
riding Bonita. Then hoarse shouts undamped Made- 
line’s power of movement, and she spurred the black into 
the open. 

He wanted to run and he was swift. Madeline loosened 
the reins — laid them loose upon his neck. His action was 
strange to her. He was hard to ride. But he was fast, 
and she cared for nothing else. Madeline knew horses 
well enough to realize that the black had found he was 
free and carrying a light weight. A few times she took 
up the bridle and pulled to right or left, trying to guide 
him. He kept a straight course, however, and crashed 
through small patches of mesquite and jumped the cracks 
and washes. Uneven ground offered no perceptible ob- 
stacle to his running. To Madeline there was now a 
thrilling difference in the lash of wind and the flash of the 
gray ground underneath. She was running away from 
something; what that was she did not Iqiow. But she 
remembered Florence, and she wanted to look back, yet 
hated to do so for fear of the nameless danger Florence 
had mentioned. 

Madeline listened for the pounding of pursuing hoofs 
in her rear. Involuntarily she glanced back. On the 
mile or more of gray level between her and the ridge 
there was not a horse, a man, or anything living. She 


146 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

wheeled to look back on the other side, down the valley 
slope. 

The sight of Florence riding Majesty in zigzag flight be- 
fore a whole troop of vaqueros blanched Madeline’s cheek 
and made her grip the pommel of her saddle in terror. 
That strange gait of her roan was not his wonderful 
stride. Could Majesty be running wild? Madeline saw 
one vaquero draw closer, whirling his lasso round his 
head, but he did not get near enough to throw. So it 
seemed to Madeline. Another vaquero swept across in 
front of the first one. Then, when Madeline gasped in 
breathless expectancy, the roan swerved to elude the at- 
tack. It flashed over Madeline that Florence was put- 
ting the horse to some such awkward flight as might have 
been expected of an Eastern girl frightened out of her 
wits. Madeline made sure of this when, after looking 
again, she saw that Florence, in spite of the horse’s break- 
ing gait and the irregular course, was drawing slowly and 
surely down the valley. 

Madeline had not lost her head to the extent of for- 
getting her own motmt and the nature of the ground in 
front. When, presently, she turned again to watch 
Florence, uncertainty ceased in her mind. The strange 
features of that race between girl and vaqueros were no 
longer in evidence. Majesty was in his beautiful, wonder- 
ful stride, low down along the ground, stretching, with his 
nose level and straight for the valley. Between him and 
the lean horses in pursuit lay an ever-increasing space. 
He was running away from the vaqueros. Florence was 
indeed “riding the wind,” as Stewart had aptly expressed 
his idea of flight upon the fleet roan. 

A dimness came over Madeline’s eyes, and it was not 
all owing to the sting of the wind. She pibbed it away, 
seeing Florence as a flying dot in a strange blur. What 
a daring, intrepid girl’ This kind of strength — and aye, 
splendid thought for a weaker sister — was what the West 
inculcated in a woman. 

The next time Madeline looked back Florence was far 


147 


DON CARLOSES VAQUEROS 

ahead of her pursuers and going out of sight behind a low 
knoll. Assured of Florence’s safety, Madeline put her 
mind to her own ride and the possibilities awaiting at the 
ranch. She remembered the failure to get any of her ser- 
vants or cowboys on the telephone. To be sure, a wind- 
storm had once broken the wire. But she had little real 
hope of such being the case in this instance. She rode on, 
pulling the black as she neared the ranch. Her approach 
was from the south and off the usual trail, so that she 
went up the long slope of the knoll toward the back of 
the house. Under these circumstances she could not 
consider it out of the ordinary that she did not see any 
one about the grounds. 

It was perhaps fortunate for her, she thought, that the 
climb up the slope cut the black’s speed so she could 
manage him. He was not very hard to stop. The mo- 
ment she dismounted, however, he jumped and trotted 
off. At the edge of the slope, facing the corrals, he halted 
to lift his head and shoot up his ears. Then he let out 
a piercing whistle and dashed down the lane. 

Madeline, prepared by that warning whistle, tried to 
fortify herself for a new and unexpected situation; but 
as she espied an unfamiliar company of horsemen rapidly 
riding down a hollow leading from the foothills she felt 
the return of fears gripping at her like cold hands, and 
she fled precipitously into the house. 


XI 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 

M adeline bolted the door, and, fl5dng into the 
kitchen, she told the scared servants to shut them- 
selves in. Then she ran to her own rooms. It was only 
a matter of a few moments for her to close and bar the 
heavy shutters, yet even as she was fastening the last one 
in the room she used as an office a clattering roar of hoofs 
seemed to swell up to the front of the house. She caught 
a glimpse of wild, shaggy horses and ragged, dusty men. 
She had never seen any vaqueros that resembled these 
horsemen. Vaqueros had grace and style; they were fond 
of lace and glitter and fringe; they dressed their horses 
in silvered trappings. But the riders now trampling into 
the driveway were uncouth, lean, savage. They were 
guerrillas, a band of the raiders who had been harassing 
the border since the beginning of the revolution. A sec- 
ond glimpse assured Madeline that they were not all 
Mexicans. 

The presence of outlaws in that band brought home to 
Madeline her real danger. She remembered what Still- 
well had told her about recent outlaw raids along the Rio 
Grande. These flying bands, operating under the excite- 
ment of the revolution, appeared here and there, every- 
where, in remote places, and were gone as quickly as they 
came. Mostly they wanted money and arms, but they 
would steal anything, and unprotected women had suffered 
at their hands. 

Madeline, hurriedly collecting her securities and the 
considerable money she had in her desk, ran out, closed 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 


149 


and locked the door, crossed the patio to the opposite 
side of the house, and, entering again, went down a long 
corridor, trying to decide which of the many unused 
rooms would be best to hide in. And before she made up 
her mind she came to the last room. Just then a batter- 
ing on door or window in the direction of the kitchen 
and shrill screams from the servant women increased 
Madeline’s alarm. 

She entered the last room. There was no lock or bar 
upon the door. But the room was large and dark, and it 
was half full of bales of alfalfa hay. Probably it was the 
safest place in the house; at least time would be neces- 
sary to find any one hidden there. She dropped her valu- 
ables in a dark comer and covered them with loose hay. 
That done, she felt her way down a narrow aisle between 
the piled-up bales and presently crouched in a niche. 

With the necessity of action over for the immediate 
present, Madeline became conscious that she was quivering 
and almost breathless. Her skin felt tight and cold. 
There was a weight on her chest; her mouth was dry, and 
she had a strange tendency to swallow. Her listening 
faculty seemed most acute. Dull sounds came from parts 
of the house remote from her. In the intervals of silence 
between these sounds she heard the squeaking and ms- 
tling of mice in the hay. A mouse ran over her hand. 

She listened, waiting, hoping yet dreading to hear the 
clattering approach of her cowboys. There would be 
fighting — blood — men injured, perhaps killed. Even the 
thought of violence of any kind hurt her. But perhaps 
the guerrillas would run in time to avoid a clash with her 
men. She hoped for that, prayed for it. Through her 
mind flitted what she knew of Nels, of Monty, of Nick 
Steele; and she experienced a sensation that left her 
somewhat chilled and sick. Then she thought of the 
dark-browed, fire-eyed Stewart. She felt a thrill drive 
away the cold nausea. And her excitement augmented. 

Waiting, listening increased all her emotions. Noth- 
ing appeared to be happening. Yet hours seemed to pas? 


ISO THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

while she crouched there. Had Florence been over- 
taken? Could any of those lean horses outrun Majesty? 
She doubted it; she knew it could not be true. Never- 
theless, the strain of uncertainty was torturing. 

Suddenly the bang of the corridor door pierced her 
through and through with the dread of uncertainty. 
Some of the guerrillas had entered the east wing of the 
house. She heard a babel of jabbering voices, the shuf- 
fling of boots and clinking of spurs, the slamming of doors 
and ransacking of rooms. 

Madeline lost faith in her hiding-place. Morever, 
she found it impossible to take the chance. The idea of 
being caught in that dark room by those ruffians filled 
her with horror. She must get out into the light. Swiftly 
she rose and went to the window. It was rather more of a 
door than window, being a large aperture closed by two 
wooden doors on hinges. The iron hook yielded readily 
to her grasp, and one door stuck fast, while the other opened 
a few inches. She looked out upon a green slope covered 
with flowers and bunches of sage and bushes. Neither 
man nor horse showed in the narrow field of her vision. 
She believed she would be safer hidden out there in the 
shrubbery than in the house. The jump from the window 
would be easy for her. And with her quick decision came a 
rush and stir of spirit that warded off her weakness. 

She pulled at the door. It did not budge. It had 
caught at the bottom. Pulling with all her might proved 
to be in vain. Pausing, with palms hot and bruised, she 
heard a louder, closer approach of the invaders of her 
home. Fear, wrath, and impotence contested for su- 
premacy over her and drove her to desperation. She was 
alone here, and she must rely on herself. And as she 
strained every muscle to move that obstinate door and 
heard the quick, harsh voices of men and the sounds of 
a hurried search she suddenly felt stu*e that they were 
hunting for her. She knew it. She did not wonder at 
it. But she wondered if she were really Madeline Ham- 
mond, and if it were possible that brutal men would harm 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 


iSi 

her. Then the tramping of heavy feet on the floor of the 
adjoining room lent her the last strength of fear. Pushing 
with hands and shoulders, she moved the door far enough 
to permit the passage of her body. Then she stepped 
up on the sill and slipped through the aperture. She 
saw no one. Lightly she jumped down and ran in among 
the bushes. But these did not afford her the cover she 
needed. She stole from one clump to another, finding 
too late that she had chosen with poor judgment. The 
position of the bushes had drawn her closer to the front 
of the house rather than away from it, and just before 
her were horses, and beyond a group of excited men. 
With her heart in her throat Madeline crouched down. 

A shrill yell, followed by running and mounting guer- 
rillas, roused her hope. They had sighted the cowboys 
and were in flight. Rapid thumping of boots on the porch 
told of men hurrying from the house. Several horses 
dashed past her, not ten feet distant. One rider saw her, 
for he turned to shout back. This drove Madeline into a 
panic. Hardly knowing what she did, she began to run 
away from the house. Her feet seemed leaden. She felt 
the same horrible powerlessness that sometimes came 
over her when she dreamed of being pursued. Horses 
with shouting riders streaked past her in the shrubbery. 
There was a thunder of hoofs behind her. She turned 
aside, but the thundering grew nearer. She was being 
run down. 

As Madeline shut her eyes and, staggering, was about 
to fall, apparently right under pounding hoofs, a rude, 
powerful hand clapped round her waist, clutched deep and 
strong, and swung her aloft. She felt a heavy blow when 
the shoulder of the horse struck her, and then a wrenching 
of her arm as she was dragged up. A sudden blighting 
pain made sight and feeling fade from her. 

But she did not become unconscious to the extent that 
she lost the sense of being rapidly borne away. She 
seemed to hold that for a long time. When her faculties 
began to return the motion of the horse was no longer vio- 


152 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

lent. For a few moments she could not determine her 
position. Apparently she was upside down. Then she 
saw that she was facing the ground, and must be lying 
across a saddle with her head hanging down. She could 
not move a hand; she could not tell where her hands 
were. Then she felt the touch of soft leather. She saw 
a high-topped Mexican boot, wearing a huge silver spur, 
and the reeking flank and legs of a horse, and a dusty, 
narrow trail. Soon a kind of red darkness veiled her 
eyes, her head swam, and she felt motion and pain only 
dully. 

After what seemed a thousand weary hours some one 
lifted her from the horse and laid her upon the ground, 
where, gradually, as the blood left her head and she could 
see, she began to get the right relation of things. 

She lay in a sparse grove of firs, and the shadows told 
of late afternoon. She smelled wood smoke, and she 
heard the sharp crunch of horses’ teeth nipping grass. 
Voices caused her to turn her face. A group of men stood 
and sat round a camp-fire eating like wolves. The looks 
of her captors made Madeline close her eyes, and the 
fascination, the fear they roused in her made her open 
them again. Mostly they were thin-bodied, thin-bearded 
Mexicans, black and haggard and starved. Whatever 
they might be, they surely were hunger-stricken and 
squalid. Not one had a coat. A few had scarfs. Some 
wore belts in which were scattered cartridges. Only a 
few had guns, and these were of diverse patterns. Made- 
line could see no packs, no blankets, and only a few cook- 
ing-utensils, all battered and blackened. Her eyes fast- 
ened upon men she believed were white men; but it was 
from their features and not their color that she judged. 
Once she had seen a band of nomad robbers in the Sahara, 
and somehow was reminded of them by this motley out- 
law troop. 

They divided attention between the satisfying of raven- 
ous appetites and a vigilant watching down the forest 
aisles. They expected some one, Madeline thought, and. 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 


IS3 

manifestly, if it were a pursuing posse, they did not show 
anxiety. She could not understand more than a word 
here and there that they uttered. Presently, however, 
the name of Don Carlos revived keen curiosity in her and 
realization of her situation, and then once more dread 
possessed her breast. 

A low exclamation and a sweep of arm from one of the 
guerrillas caused the whole band to wheel and concentrate 
their attention in the opposite direction. They heard 
something. They saw some one. Grimy hands sought 
weapons, and then every man stiffened. Madeline saw 
what hunted men looked like at the moment of discovery, 
and the sight was terrible. She closed her eyes, sick with 
what she saw, fearful of the moment when the guns would 
leap out. 

There were muttered curses, a short period of silence 
followed by whisperings, and then a clear voice rang out, 
“El Capitan!’’ 

A strong shock vibrated through Madeline, and her 
eyelids swept open. Instantly she associated the name 
El Capitan with Stewart and experienced a sensation of 
strange regret. It was not pursuit or rescue she thought 
of then, but death. These men would kill Stewart. But 
surely he had not come alone. The lean, dark faces, corded 
and rigid, told her in what direction to look. She heard 
the slow, heavy thump of hoofs. Soon into the wide aisle 
between the trees moved the form of a man, arms flung 
high over his head. Then Madeline saw the horse, and 
she recognized Majesty, and she knew it was really 
Stewart who rode the roan. When doubt was no longer 
possible she felt a suffocating sense of gladness and fear 
and wonder. 

Many of the guerrillas leaped up with drawn weapons. 
Still Stewart approached with his hands high, and he 
rode right into the camp-fire circle. Then a guerrilla, 
evidently the chief, waved down the threatening men and 
strode up to Stewart. He greeted him. There was 
amaze and pleasure and respect in the greeting. Made- 


154 the light of western stars 

line could tell that, though she did not know what was 
said. At the moment Stewart appeared to her as cool 
and careless as if he were dismounting at her porch steps. 
But when he got down she saw that his face was white. 
He shook hands with the guerrilla, and then his glittering 
eyes roved over the men and around the glade until they 
rested upon Madeline. Without moving from his tracks 
he seemed to leap, as if a powerful current had shocked 
him. Madeline tried to smile to assure him she was alive 
and well ; but the intent in his eyes, the power of his con- 
trolled spirit telling her of her peril and his, froze the smile 
on her lips. 

With that he faced the chief and spoke rapidly in the 
Mexican jargon Madeline had always found so difficult 
to translate. The chief answered, spreading wide his 
hands, one of which indicated Madeline as she lay there. 
Stewart drew the fellow a little aside and said something 
for his ear alone. The chief’s hands swept up in a gesture 
of surprise and acquiescence. Again Stewart spoke swift- 
ly. His hearer then turned to address the band. Made- 
line caught the words “ Don Carlos ” and “ pesos.” There 
was a brief muttering protest which the chief thundered 
down. Madeline guessed her release had been given by 
this guerrilla and bought from the others of the band. 

Stewart strode to her side, leading the roan. Majesty 
reared and snorted when he saw his mistress prostrate. 
Stewart knelt, still holding the bridle. 

“Are you all right?” he asked. 

“I think so,” she replied, essaying a laugh that was 
rather a failure. “My feet are tied.” 

Dark blood blotted out all the white from his face, and 
lightning shot from his eyes. She felt his hands, like 
steel tongs, loosening the bonds round her ankles. With- 
out a word he lifted her upright and then upon Majesty. 
Madeline reeled a little in the saddle, held hard to the 
pommel wi'h one hand, and tried to lean on Stewart’s 
shoulder with the other. 

“ Don’t give up,” he said. 


n BAJND OF GUERRILLAS 


155 

She saw him gaze furtively into the forest on all sides. 
And it surprised her to see the guerrillas riding away. 
Putting the two facts together, Madeline formed an idea 
that neither Stewart nor the others desired to meet with 
some one evidently due shortly in the glade. Stewart 
guided the roan off to the right and walked beside Made- 
line, steadying her in the saddle. At first Madeline was 
so weak and dizzy that she could scarcely retain her seat. 
The dizziness left her presently, and then she made an 
effort to ride without help. Her weakness, however, and 
a pain in her wrenched arm made the task laborsome. 

Stewart had struck off the trail, if there were one, and 
was keeping to denser parts of the forest. The sun sank 
low, and the shafts of gold fell with a long slant among 
the firs. Majesty’s hoofs made no sound on the soft 
ground, and Stewart strode on without speaking. Neither 
his hurry nor vigilance relaxed until at least two miles 
had been covered. Then he hdd to a straighter course 
and did not send so many glances into the darkening 
woods. The level of the forest began to be cut up by 
little hollows, all of which sloped and widened. Presently 
the soft ground gave place to bare, rocky soil. The horse 
snorted and tossed his head. A sound of splashing water 
broke the silence. The hollow opened into a wider one 
through which a little brook murmured its way over the 
stones. Majesty snorted again and stopped and bent his 
head. 

“He wants a drink,” said Madeline. “I’m thirsty, 
too, and very tired.” 

Stewart lifted her out of the saddle, and as their hands 
parted she felt something moist and warm. Blood was 
running down her arm and into the palm of her hand. 

“I’m — bleeding,” she said, a little unsteadily. “Oh, I 
remember. My arm was hurt.” 

She held it out, tlie blood making her conscious of her 
weakness. Stewart’s fingers felt so firm and sure. Swift- 
ly he ripped the wet sleeve. Her forearm had been cut 
or scratched. He washed off the blood. 


156 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Why, Stewart, it’s nothing. I was only a little ner- 
vous. I guess that’s the first time I ever saw my own 
blood.” 

He made no reply as he tore her handkerchief into 
strips and bound her arm. His swift motions and his 
silence gave her a hint of how he might meet a more seri- 
ous emergency. She felt safe. And because of that im- 
pression, when he lifted his head and she saw that he was 
pale and shaking, she was surprised. He stood before 
her folding his scarf, which was still wet, and from which 
he made no effort to remove the red stains. 

“Miss Hammond,” he said, hoarsely, “it was a man’s 
hands — a Greaser’s finger-nails — that cut your arm. I 
know who he was. I could have killed him. But I 
mightn’t have got your freedom. You imderstand? I 
didn’t dare.” 

Madeline gazed at Stewart, astounded more by his 
speech than his excessive emotion. 

“My dear boy!” she exclaimed. And then she paused. 
She could not find words. 

He was making an apology to her for not killing a man 
who had laid a rough hand upon her person. He was 
ashamed and seemed to be in a torture that she would 
not understand why he had not killed the man. There 
seemed to be something of passionate scorn in him that 
he had not been able to avenge her as well as free her. 

“Stewart, I understand. You were being my kind of 
cowboy. I thank you.” 

But she did not understand so much as she implied. 
She had heard many stories of this man’s cool indifference 
to peril and death. He had. always seemed as hard as 
granite. Why should the sig'ht of a little blood upon her 
arm pale his cheek and shake his hand and thicken his 
voice? What was there in his nature to make him im- 
plore her to see the only reason he could not kill an out- 
law ? The answer to the first question was that he loved 
her. It was beyond her to answer the second. But the 
secret of it lay in the same strength from which his love 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 


157 


sprang — an intensity of feeling which seemed character- 
istic of these Western men of simple, lonely, elemental 
lives. All at once over Madeline rushed a tide of realiza- 
tion of how greatly it was possible for such a man as 
Stewart to love her. The thought came to her in all its 
singular power. All her Eastern lovers who had the 
graces that made them her equals in the sight of the 
world were without the only great essential that a lonely, 
hard life had given to Stewart. Nature here struck a just 
balance. Something deep and dim in the future, an un- 
known voice, called to Madeline and disturbed her. And 
because it was not a voice to her intelligence she dead- 
ened the ears of her warm and throbbing life and decided 
never to listen. 

“Is it safe to rest a little?’* she asked. “I am so tired. 
Perhaps I’ll be stronger if I rest.” 

“We’re all right now,” he said. “The horse will be 
better, too. I ran him out. And uphill, at that.” 

“Where are we?” 

“Up in the mountains, ten miles and more from the 
ranch. There’s a trail just below here. I can get you 
home by midnight. They’ll be some worried down there.” 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing much to any one but you. That’s the — the 
hard luck of it. * Florence caught us out on the slope. 
We were returning from the fire. We were dead beat. 
But we got to the ranch before any damage was done. 
We sure had trouble in finding a trace of you. Nick 
spotted the prints of your heels under the window. And 
then we knew. I had to fight the boys. If they’d come 
after you we’d never have gotten you without a fight. I 
didn’t want that. Old Bill came out packing a dozen 
guns. He was crazy. I had to rope Monty. Honest, 
I tied him to the porch. Nels and Nick promised to stay 
and hold him till morning. That was the best I could do. 
I was sure lucky to come up with the band so soon. I 
had figured right. I knew that guerrilla chief. He’s a 
bandit in Mexico. It’s a business with him. But he 


158 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

fought for Madero, and I was with him a good deal. He 
may be a Greaser, but he’s white.” 

“How did you effect my release?” 

“I offered them money. That’s what the rebels all 
want. They need money. They’re a lot of poor, hungry 
devils.” 

“I gathered that you offered to pay ransom. How 
much?” 

“Two thousand dollars Mex. I gave my word. I’ll 
have to take the money. I told them when and where 
I’d meet them.” 

“Certainly. I’m glad I’ve got the money.” Madeline 
laughed. “What a strange thing to happen to me! I 
wonder what dad would say to that? Stewart, I’m afraid 
he’d say two thousand dollars is more than I’m worth. 
But tell me. That rebel chieftain did not demand 
money?” 

“No. The money is for his men.” 

“What did you say to him? I saw you whisper in his 
ear.” 

Stewart dropped his head, averting her direct gaze. 

“We were comrades before Juarez. One day I dragged 
him out of a ditch. I reminded him. Then I — I told 
him something I — I thought — ” 

“Stewart, I know from the way he looked at me that 
you spoke of me.” 

Her companion did not offer a reply to this, and Made- 
line did not press the point. 

“I heard Don Carlos’s name several times. That in- 
terests me. What have Don Carlos and his vaqueros to do 
with this?” 

“That Greaser has all to do with it,” replied Stewart, 
grimly. “He burned his ranch and corrals to keep us 
from getting them. But he also did it to draw all the 
boys away from your home. They had a deep plot, all 
right. I left orders for some one to stay with you. But 
A1 and Stillwell, who’re both hot-headed, rode off this 
morning. Then the guerrillas came down.” 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 


159 


“Well, what was the idea — the plot — as you call it?’’ 

“To get you,” he said, bluntly. 

“Me! Stewart, you do not mean my capture — what- 
ever you call it — was anything more than mere accident?” 

“ I do mean that. But Stillwell and your brother think 
the guerrillas wanted money and arms, and they just 
happened to make off with you because you ran under a 
horse’s nose.” 

“You do not incline to that point of view?” 

“I don’t. Neither does Nels nor Nick Steele. And we 
know Don Carlos and the Greasers. Look how the 
vaqueros chased Flo for you!” 

“What do you think, then?’^ 

“I’d rather not say.” 

“But, Stewart, I would like to know. If it is about me, 
surely I ought to know,” protested Madeline. “What 
reason have Nels and Nick to suspect Don Carlos of 
plotting to abduct me?” 

“I suppose they’ve no reason you’d take. Once I heard 
Nels say he’d seen the Greaser look at you, and if he ever 
saw him do it again he’d shoot him.” 

“Why, Stewart, that is ridiculous. To shoot a man for 
looking at a woman! This is a civilized country.” 

“Well, maybe it would be ridiculous in a civilized 
country. There’s some things about civilization I don’t 
care for.” 

“What, for instance?” 

“For one thing, I can’t stand for the way men let other 
men treat women.” 

“But, Stewart, this is strange talk from you, who, 
that night I came — ” 

She broke off, sorry that she had spoken. His shame 
was not pleasant to see. Suddenly he lifted his head, and 
she felt scorched by flaming eyes. 

“Suppose I was drunk. Suppose I had met some ordi- 
nary girl. Suppose I had really made her marry me. 
Don’t you think I would have stopped being a drunkard 
and have been good to her?” 


i6o THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


“Stewart, I do not know what to think about you,” 
replied Madeline. 

Then followed a short silence. Madeline saw the last 
bright rays of the setting sun glide up over a distant crag. 
Stewart rebridled the horse and looked at the saddle- 
girths. 

“I got off the trail. About Don Carlos 111 say right 
out, not what Nels and Nick think, but what I know. 
Don Carlos hoped to make off with you for himself, the 
same as if you had been a poor peon slave-girl down in 
Sonora. Maybe he had a deeper plot than my rebel 
friend told me. Maybe he even went so far as to hope 
for American troops to chase him. The rebels are trying 
to stir up the United States. They’d welcome inter- 
vention. But, however that may be, the Greaser meant 
evil to you, and has meant it ever since he saw you first. 
That’s all.” 

“Stewart, you have done me and my family a service 
we can never hope to repay.” 

“I’ve done the service. Only don’t mention pay to 
me. But there’s one thing I’d like you to know, and I 
find it hard to say. It’s prompted, maybe, by what I 
know you think of me and what I imagine your family 
and friends would think if they knew. It’s not prompted 
by pride or conceit. And it’s this ; Such a woman as you 
should never have come to this God-forsaken coimtry 
unless she meant to forget herself. But as you did come, 
and as you were dragged away by those devils, I want 
you to know that all your wealth and position and in- 
fluence — all that power behind you — would never have 
saved you from hell to-night. Only such a man as Nels 
or Nick Steele or I could have done that.” 

Madeline Hammond felt the great leveling force of the 
truth. Whatever the difference between her and Stewart, 
or whatever the imagined difference set up by false stand- 
ards of class and culture, the truth was that here on this 
wild mountain-side she was only a woman and he was 
simply a man. It was a man that she needed, and if her 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS i6i 

choice could have been considered in this extremity it 
would have fallen upon him who had just faced her in 
quiet, bitter speech. Here was food for thought. 

‘‘I reckon we’d better start now,” he said, and drew 
the horse close to a large rock. '‘Come.” 

Madeline’s will greatly exceeded her strength. For the 
first time she acknowledged to herself that she had been 
hurt. Still, she did not feel much pain except when she 
moved her shoulder. Once in the saddle, where Stewart 
lifted her, she drooped weakly. The way was rough; 
every step the horse took hurt her; and the slope of the 
ground threw her forward on the pommel. Presently, as 
the slope grew rockier and her discomfort increased, she 
forgot everything except that she was suffering. 

“Here is the trail,” said Stewart, at length. 

Not far from that point Madeline swayed, and but for 
Stewart’s support would have fallen from the saddle. 
She heard him swear under his breath. 

“Here, this won’t do,” he said. “Throw your leg over 
the pommel. The other one — there.” 

Then, mounting, he slipped behind her and lifted and 
turned her, and then held her with his left arm so that 
she lay across the saddle and his knees, her head against 
his shoulder. 

As the horse started into a rapid walk Madeline grad- 
ually lost all pain and discomfort when she relaxed her 
muscles. Presently she let herself go and lay inert, 
greatly to her relief. For a little while she seemed to be 
half drunk with the gentle swaying of a hammock. Her 
mind became at once dreamy and active, as if it thought- 
fully recorded the slow, soft impressions pouring in from 
all her senses. 

A red glow faded in the west. She could see out over 
the foothills, where twilight was settling gray on the 
crests, dark in the hollows. Cedar and pinon trees lined 
the trad, and there were no more firs. At intervals huge 
drab-colored rocks loomed over her. The sky was clear 
and steely. A faint star twinkled. And lastly, close to 


i 62 the light of western stars 


her, she saw Stewart’s face, once more dark and impas- 
sive, with the inscrutable eyes fixed on the trail. 

His arm, like a band of iron, held her, yet it was flexible 
and yielded her to the motion of the horse. One instant 
she felt the brawn, the bone, heavy and powerful; the 
next the stretch and ripple, the elasticity of muscles. He 
held her as easily as if she were a child. The rough- 
ness of his flannel shirt rubbed her cheek, and beneath 
that she felt the dampness of the scarf he had used to 
bathe her arm, and deeper still the regular pound of his 
heart. Against her ear, filling it with strong, vibrant beat, 
his heart seemed a mighty engine deep within a great 
cavern. Her head had never before rested on a man’s 
breast, and she had no liking for it there; but she felt 
more than the physical contact. The position was mys- 
terious and fascinating, and something natural in it made 
her think of life. Then as the cool wind blew down from 
the heights, loosening her tumbled hair, she was com- 
pelled to see strands of it curl softly into Stewart’s face, 
before his eyes, across his lips. She was unable to reach 
it with her free hand, and therefore could not refasten 
it. And when she shut her eyes she felt those loosened 
strands playing against his cheeks. 

In the keener press of such sensations she caught the 
smeU of dust and a faint, wild, sweet tang on the air. 
There was a low, rustling sigh of wind in the brush along 
the trail. Suddenly the silence ripped apart to the sharp 
bark of a coyote, and then, from far away, came a long 
wail. And then Majesty’s metal-rimmed hoof rang on a 
stone. 

These later things lent probability to that ride for Made- 
line. Otherwise it would have seened like a dream. 
Even so it was hard to believe. Again she wondered if 
this woman who had begun to think and feel so much was 
Madeline Hammond. Nothing had ever happened to 
her. And here, pla3dng about her like her hair played 
about Stewart’s face, was adventure, perhaps death, and 
surely life. She could not believe the evidence of the 


A BAND OF GUERRILLAS 163 

day’s happenings. Would any of her people, her friends, 
ever believe it? Could she tell it? How impossible to 
think that a cunning Mexican might have used her to 
further the interests of a forlorn revolution ! She remem- 
bered the ghoulish visages of those starved rebels, and 
marveled at her blessed fortune in escaping them. She 
was safe, and now self-preservation had some meaning 
for her. Stewart’s arrival in the glade, the courage with 
which he had faced the outlawed men, grew as real to her 
now as the iron arm that clasped her. Had it be^n an 
instinct which had importuned her to save this man when 
he lay ill and hopeless in the shack at Chiricahua? In 
helping him had she hedged round her forces that had 
just operated to save her life, or if not that, more than 
life was to her? She believed so. 

Madeline opened her eyes after a while and found that 
night had fallen. The sky was a dark, velvety blue blaz- 
ing with white stars. The cool wind tugged at her hair> 
and through waving strands she saw Stewart’s profile, 
bold and sharp against the sky. 

Then, as her mind succumbed to her bodily fatigue, 
again her situation became unreal and wild. A heavy 
languor, like a blanket, began to steal upon her. She 
wavered and drifted. With the last half-conscious sense 
of a muffled throb at her ear, a something intangibly 
sweet, deep-toned, and strange, like a distant calling bell, 
she fell asleep with her head on Stewart’s breast. 


i54 


XII 

FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 

T hree days after her return to the ranch Madeline 
could not discover any physical discomfort as a re- 
minder of her adventurous experiences. This surprised 
her, but not nearly so much as the fact that after a few 
weeks she found she scarcely remembered the adventures 
at all. If it had not been for the quiet and persistent 
guardianship of her cowboys she might almost have for- 
gotten Don Carlos and the raiders. Madeline was as- 
sured of the splendid physical fitness to which this ranch 
life had developed her, and that she was assimilating 
something of the Western disregard of danger. A hard 
ride, an accident, a day in the sun and dust, an adventure 
with outlaws — these might once have been matters of 
large import, but now for Madeline they were in order 
with all the rest of her changed life. 

There was never a day that something interesting was 
not brought to her notice. Stillwell, who had ceaselessly 
reproached himself for riding away the morning Madeline 
was captured, grew more like an anxious parent than a 
faithful superintendent. He was never at ease regarding 
her unless he was near the ranch or had left Stewart 
there, or else Nels and Nick Steele. Naturally, he trusted 
more to Stewart than to any one else. 

"‘Miss Majesty, it’s sure amazin’ strange about Gene,” 
said the old cattleman, as he tramped into Madeline’s 
office. 

“What’s the matter now?” she inquired. 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 


165 

“Wal, Gene has rustled off into the mountains again.’* 

“Again? I did not know he had gone. I gave h im 
money for that band of guerrillas. Perhaps he went to 
take it to them.” 

“No. He took that a day or so after he fetched you 
back home. Then in about a week he went a second 
time. An’ he packed some stuff with him. Now he’s 
sneaked off, an’ Nels, who was down to the lower trail, 
saw him meet somebody that looked like Padre Marcos. 
Wal, I went down to the church, and, sure enough. Padre 
Marcos is gone. What do vou think of that, Miss 
Majesty?” 

“ Maybe Stewart is getting religious,” laughed Madeline. 
“You told me so once.” 

Stillwell puffed and wiped his red face. 

“If you’d heerd him cuss Monty this mawnin’ you’d 
never guess it was religion. Monty an’ Nels hev been 
givin’ Gene a lot of trouble lately. They’re both sore an’ 
in fightin’ mood ever since Don Carlos hed you kidnapped. 
Sure they’re goin’ to break soon, an’ then we’ll hev a 
couple of wild Texas steers ridin’ the range. I’ve a heap 
to worry me.” 

“Let Stewart take his mysterious trips into the moun- 
tains. Here, Stillwell, I have news for you that may give 
you reason for worry. I have letters from home. And 
my sister, with a party of friends, is coming out to visit 
me. They are society folk, and one of them is an Eng- 
lish lord.” 

“Wal, Miss Majesty, I reckon we’ll all be glad to see 
them,” said Stillwell. “Onless they pack you off back 
East.” 

“That isn’t likely,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. 
“I must go back some time, though. Well, let me read 
you a few extracts from my mail.” 

Madeline took up her sister’s letter with a strange 
sensation of how easily sight of a crested monogram and 
scent of delicately perfumed paper could recall the brill- 
iant life she had given up. She scanned the pages of 


i66 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


beautiful handwriting. Helen’s letter was in turn gay 
and brilliant and lazy, just as she was herself; but 
Madeline detected more of curiosity in it than of real 
longing to see the sister and brother in the Far West. 
Much of what Helen wrote was enthusiastic anticipation 
of the fun she expected to have with bashful cowboys. 
Helen seldom wrote letters, and she never read anything, 
not even popular novels of the day. She was as abso- 
lutely ignorant of the West as the Englishman, who, she 
said, expected to hunt buffalo and fight Indians. More- 
over, there was a satiric note in the letter that Madeline 
did not like, and which roused her spirit. Manifestly, 
Helen was reveling in the prospect of new sensation. 

When she finished reading aloud a few paragraphs the 
old cattleman snorted and his face grew redder. 

“Did your sister write that?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Wal, I — I beg pawdin, Miss Majesty. But it doesn’t 
seem like you. Does she think we’re a lot of wild men 
from Borneo?” 

“Evidently she does. I rather think she is in for a sur- 
prise. Now, Stillwell, you are clever and you can see 
the situation. I want my guests to enjoy their stay here, 
but I do not want that to be at the expense of the feelings 
of all of us, or even any one. Helen will bring a lively 
crowd. They’ll crave excitement — the unusual. Let us 
see that they are not disappointed. You take the boys 
into your confidence. Tell them what to expect, and tell 
them how to meet it. I shall help you in that. I want 
the boys to be on dress-parade when they are off duty. 
I want them to be on their most elegant behavior. I do 
not care what they do, what measures they take to pro- 
tect themselves, what tricks they contrive, so long as they 
do not overstep the limit of kindness and courtesy. I 
want them to play their parts seriously, naturally, as if 
they had lived no other way. My guests expect to have 
fun. Let us meet them with fun. Now what do you 
say?” 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 167 

Stillwell rose, his great bulk towering, his huge face 
beaming. 

“ Wal, I say it’s the most amazin’ fine idee I ever heerd 
in my life.” 

“Indeed, I am glad you like it,” went on Madeline. 
“Come to m.e again, Stillwell, after you have spoken to 
the boys. But, now that I have suggested it, I am a 
little afraid. You know what cowboy fun is. Perhaps — ” 

“Don’t you go back on that idee,” interrupted Still- 
well. He was assuring and bland, but his hurry to con- 
vince Madeline betrayed him. “Leave the boys to me. 
Why, don’t they all swear by you, same as the Mexicans 
do to the Virgin? They won’t disgrace you. Miss Maj- 
esty. They’ll be simply immense. It ’ll beat any show 
you ever seen.” 

“I believe it will,” replied Madeline. She was still 
doubtful of her plan, but the enthusiasm of the old cattle- 
man was infectious and irresistible. “Very well, we will 
consider it settled. My guests will arrive on May ninth. 
Meanwhile let us get Her Majesty’s Rancho in shape for 
this invasion.” 

On the afternoon of the ninth of May, perhaps half an 
hour after Madeline had received a telephone message 
from Link Stevens announcing the arrival of her guests 
at El Cajon, Florence called her out upon the. porch. 
Stillwell was there with his face wrinkled by his wonder- 
ful smile and his eagle eyes riveted upon the distant valley. 
Far away, perhaps twenty miles, a thin streak of white 
dust rose from the valley floor and slanted skyward. 

“Look!” said Florence, excitedly. 

“What is that?” asked Madeline. 

“Link Stevens and the automobile!” 

“Oh no! Why, it’s only a few minutes since he tele- 
phoned saying the party had just arrived.” 

“Take a look with the glasses,” said Florence. 

One glance through the powerful binoculars convinced 
M# ieline that Florence was right. And another glance 


i68 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


at Stillwell told her that he was speechless with delight. 
She remembered a little conversation she had had with 
Link Stevens a short while previous. 

“Stevens, I hope the car is in good shape,” she had said. 

“ Now, Miss Hammond, she’s as right as the best-trained 
boss I ever rode,” he had replied. 

“The valley road is perfect,” she had gone on, musingly. 
“I never saw such a beautiful road, even in France. No 
fences, no ditches, no rocks, no vehicles. Just a lonely 
road on the desert.” 

“Shore, it’s lonely,” Stevens had answered, with slowly 
brightening eyes. “An’ safe. Miss Hammond.” 

“My sister used to like fast riding. If I remember 
correctly, all of my guests were a little afflicted with the 
speed mania. It is a common disease with New-Yorkers. 
I hope, Stevens, that you will not give them reason to 
think we are altogether steeped in the slow, dreamy 
manana languor of the Southwest.” 

Link doubtfully eyed her, and then his bronze face 
changed its dark aspect and seemed to shine. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Hammond, thet’s shore 
tall talk fer Link Stevens to savvy. You mean — as long 
as I drive careful an’ safe I can run away from my dust, 
so to say, an’ get here in somethin’ less than the Greaser’s 
to-morrow?” 

Madeline had laughed her assent. And now, as she 
watched the thin streak of dust, at that distance moving 
with snail pace, she reproached herself. She trusted 
Stevens; she had never known so skilful, daring, and 
iron-nerved a driver as he was. If she had been in the 
car herself she would have had no anxiety. But, imag- 
ining what Stevens would do on forty miles and more 
of that desert road, Madeline suffered a prick of conscience. 

“Oh, Stillwell!” she exclaimed. “I am afraid I will go 
back on my wonderful idea. What made me do it?” 

“Your sister wanted the real thing, didn’t she? Said 
they all wanted it. Wal, I reckon they’ve begun gettin’ 
it,” replied Stillwell. 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 169 

That statement from the cattleman allayed Madeline's 
pangs of conscience. She understood just what she felt, 
though she could not have put it in words. She was 
hungry for a sight of well-remembered faces; she longed 
to hear the soft laughter and gay repartee of old friends; 
she was eager for gossipy first-hand news of her old world. 
Nevertheless, something in her sister’s letter, in messages 
from the others who were coming, had touched Madeline’s 
pride. In one sense the expected guests were hostile, 
inasmuch as they were scornful and curious about the 
West that had claimed her. She imagined what they 
would expect in a Western ranch. They would surely 
get the real thing, too, as Stillwell said; and in that cer- 
tainty was satisfaction for a small grain of something 
within Madeline which approached resentment. She 
wistfully wondered, however, if her sister or friends would 
come to see the West even a little as she saw it. That, 
perhaps, would be hoping too much. She resolved once 
for all to do her best to give them the sensation their 
senses craved, and equally to show them the sweetness 
and beauty and wholesomeness and strength of life in the 
Southwest. 

“ Wal, as Nels says, I wouldn’t be in that there ottomo- 
bile right now for a million pesos,” remarked Stillwell. 

“Why? Is Stevens driving fast?” 

“Good Lord! Fast? Miss Majesty, there hain’t ever 
been anythin’ except a streak of lightnin’ run so fast in 
this country. I’ll bet Link for once is in heaven. I can 
jest see him now, the grim, crooked-legged little devil, 
hunchin’ down over that wheel as if it was a boss’s neck.” 

“I told him not to let the ride be hot or dusty,” re- 
marked Madeline. 

“Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell. “Wal, I’ll be goin’. I 
reckon I’d like to be hyar when Link drives up, but I want 
to be with the boys down by the bunks. It ’ll be some 
fun to see Nels an’ Monty when Link comes fl 3 dn’ along.” 

“I wish A1 had stayed to meet them,” said Madeline. 

Her brother had rather hurried a shipment of cattle to 


170 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

California; and it was Madeline’s supposition that he had 
welcomed the opportunity to absent himself from the ranch. 

'‘I am sorry he wouldn’t stay,” replied Florence. “But 
Al’s all business now. And he’s doing finely. It’s just 
as well, perhaps.” 

“Surely. That was my pride speaking. I would like 
to have all my family and all my old friends see what a 
man A1 has become. Well, Link Stevens is running like 
the wind. The car will be here before we know it. Flor- 
ence, we’ve only a few moments to dress. But first I 
want to order many and various and exceedingly cold re- 
freshments for that approaching party.” 

Less than a half-hour later Madeline went again to 
the porch and foimd Florence there. 

“Oh, you look just lovely!” exclaimed Florence, im- 
pulsively, as she gazed wide-eyed up at Madeline. “And 
somehow so different!” 

Madeline smiled a little sadly. Perhaps when she had 
put on that exquisite white gown something had come to 
her of the manner which befitted the wearing of it. She 
could not resist the desire to look fair once more in the 
eyes of these hypercritical friends. The sad smile had 
been for the days that were gone. For she knew that 
what society had once been pleased to call her beauty 
had trebled since it had last been seen in a drawing-room. 
Madeline wore no jewels, but at her waist she had pinned 
two great crimson roses. Against the dead white they 
had the life and fire and redness of the desert. 

“Link’s hit the old round-up trail,” said Florence, 
“and oh, isn’t he riding that car!” 

With Florence, as with most of the cowboys, the car 
was never driven, but ridden. 

A white spot with a long trail of dust showed low down 
in the valley. It was now headed almost straight for 
the ranch. Madeline watched it growing larger moment 
by moment, and her pleasimable emotion grew accord- 
ingly. Then the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs caused her 
to tiuii. 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 


171 

Stewart was riding in on his black horse. He had been 
absent on an important mission, and his duty had taken 
him to the international boundary-line. His presence 
home long before he was expected was particularly grati- 
fying to Madeline, for it meant that his mission had been 
brought to a successfuh issue. Once more, for the hun- 
dredth time, the man’s reliability struck Madeline. He was 
a doer of things. The black horse halted wearily without 
the usual pound of hoofs on the gravel, and the dusty 
rider dismounted wearily. Both horse and rider showed 
the heat and dust and wind of many miles. 

Madeline advanced to the porch steps. And Stewart, 
after taking a parcel of papers from a saddle-bag, turned 
tpward her. 

“Stewart, you are the best of couriers,” she said. “I 
am pleased.” 

Dust streamed from his sombrero as he doffed it. His 
dark face seemed to rise as he straightened weary shoulders. 

“Here are the reports. Miss Hammond,” he replied. 

As he looked up to see her standing there, dressed to 
receive her Eastern guests, he checked his advance with 
a violent action which recalled to Madeline the one he 
had made on the night she had met him, when she dis- 
closed her identity. It was not fear nor embarrassment 
nor awkwardness. And it was only momentary. Yet, 
slight as had been his pause, Madeline received from it an 
impression of some strong halting force. A man struck 
by a bullet might have had an instant jerk of muscular 
control such as convulsed Stewart. In that instant, as 
her keen gaze searched his dust-caked face, she met the 
full, free look of his syes. Her own did not fall, though 
she felt a warmth steal to her cheeks. Madeline very sel- 
dom blushed. And now, conscious of her sudden color, 
a genuine blush flamed on her face. It was irritating be- 
cause it was incomprehensible. She received the papers 
from Stewart and thanked him. He bowed, then led the 
black down the path toward the corrals. 

“When Stewart looks like that he’s been riding,” said 


172 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

Florence. “But when his horse looks like that he’s sure 
been burning the wind.” 

Madeline watched the weary horse and rider limp down 
the path. What had made her thoughtful? Mostly it 
was something new or sudden or inexplicable that stirred 
her mind to quick analysis. In this instance the thing 
that had struck Madeline was Stewart’s glance. He had 
looked at her, and the old burning, inscrutable fire, the 
darkness, had left his eyes. Suddenly they had been 
beautiful. The look had not been one of surprise or ad- 
miration; nor had it been one of love. She was familiar, 
too familiar with all three. It had not been a gaze of 
passion, for there was nothing beautiful in that. Made- 
line pondered. And presently she realized that Stewart’s 
eyes had expressed a strange joy of pride. That expres- 
sion Madeline had never before encountered in the look of 
any man. Probably its strangeness had made her notice 
it and accounted for her blushing. The longer she lived 
among these outdoor men the more they surprised her. 
Particularly, how incomprehensible was this cowboy 
Stewart! Why should he have pride or joy at sight of 
her? 

Florence’s exclamation made Madeline once more at- 
tend to the approaching automobile. It was on the slope 
now, some miles down the long gradual slant. Two yellow 
funnel-shaped clouds of dust seemed to shoot out from 
behind the car and roll aloft to join the column that 
stretched down the valley. 

“I wonder what riding a mile a minute would be like,” 
said Florence. “I’ll sure make Link take me. Oh, but 
look at him come!” 

The giant car resembled a white demon, and but for 
the dust would have appeared to be sailing in the air. 
Its motion was steadily forward, holding to the road as if 
on rails. And its velocity was astounding. Long, gray 
veils, like pennants, streamed in the wind. A low rushing 
sound became perceptible, and it grew louder, became a 
roar. The car shot like an arrow past the alfalfa-field, 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 


m 


by the bunk-houses, where the cowboys waved and 
cheered. The horses and biuros in the corrals began to 
snort and tramp and race in fright. At the base of the 
long slope of the foothill Link cut the speed more than 
half. Yet the car roared up, rolling the dust, flying capes 
and veils and ulsters, and crashed and cracked to a halt 
in the yard before the porch. 

Madeline descried a gray, disheveled mass of humanity 
packed inside the car. Besides the driver there were seven 
occupants, and for a moment they appeared to be coming 
to life, moving and exclaiming under the veils and wraps 
and dust-shields. 

Link Stevens stepped out and, removing helmet and 
goggles, coolly looked at his watch. 

“An hour an’ a quarter. Miss Hammond,” he said. 
“It’s sixty-three miles by the valley road, an’ you know 
there’s a couple of bad hills. I reckon we made fair time, 
considerin’ you wanted me to drive slow an’ safe.” 

From the mass of dusty-veiled humanity in the car 
came low exclamations and plaintive feminine wails. 

Madeline stepped to the front of the porch. Then the 
deep voices of men and softer voices of women united in 
one glad outburst, as much a thanksgiving as a greeting, 
“Majesty!” 

Helen Hammond was three years younger than Made- 
line, and a slender, pretty girl. She did not resemble her 
sister, except in whiteness and fineness of skin, being more 
of a brown-eyed, brown-haired type. Having recovered 
her breath soon after Madeline took her to her room, she 
began to talk. 

“Majesty, old girl, I’m here; but you can bet I would 
never have gotten here if I had known about that ride 
from the railroad. You never wrote that you had a car. 
I thought this was out West — stage-coach, and all that 
sort of thing. Such a tremendous car! And the road! 
And that terrible little man with the leather trousers! 
What kind of a chauffeur is he?” 


174 the light of western stars 

“He’s a cowboy. He was crippled by falling under his 
horse, so I had him instructed to run the car. He can 
drive, don’t you think?’’ 

“Drive? Good gracious! He scared us to death, ex- 
cept Castleton. Nothing could scare that cold-blooded 
little Englishman. I am dizzy yet. Do you know, 
Majesty, I was delighted when I saw the car. Then your 
cowboy driver met us at the platform. What a queer- 
looking individual 1 He had a big pistol strapped to those 
leather trousers. That made me nervous. When he 
piled us all in with our grips, he put me in the seat beside 
him, whether I liked it or not. I was fool enough to tell 
him I loved to travel fast. What do you think he said? 
Well, he eyed me in a rather cool and speculative way and 
said, with a smile, ‘ Miss, I reckon anything you love an’ 
want bad will be coming to you out here!’ I didn’t know 
whether it was delightful candor or impudence. Then he 
said to all of us: ‘Shore you had better wrap up in the 
veils an’ dusters. It’s a long, slow, hot, dusty ride to the 
ranch, an’ Miss Hammond’s order was to drive safe.’ 
He got our baggage checks and gave them to a man with 
a huge wagon and a four-horse team. Then he cranked 
the car, jumped in, wrapped his arms round the wheel, 
and sank down low in his seat. There was a crack, a 
jerk, a kind of flash around us, and that dirty little town 
was somewhere on the map behind. For about five 
minutes I had a lovely time. Then the wind began to 
tear me to pieces. I couldn’t hear anything but the rush 
of wind and roar of the car. I could see only straight 
ahead. What a road! I never saw a road in my life 
till to-day. Miles and miles and miles ahead, with not 
even a post or tree. That big car seemed to leap at the 
miles. It hummed and sang. I was fascinated, then 
terrified. We went so fast I couldn’t catch my breath. 
The wind went through me, and I expected to be dis- 
robed by it any minute. I was afraid I couldn’t hold 
any clothes on. Presently all I could see was a flashing 
gray wall with a white line in the middle Then my eyes 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 


175 


blurred. My face burned. My ears grew full of a hun- 
dred thousand howling devils. I was about ready to die 
when the car stopped. I looked and looked, and when 
I could see, there you stood!” 

“Helen, I thought you were fond of speeding,” said 
Madeline, with a laugh. 

“I was. But I assure you I never before was in a fast 
car; I never saw a road; I never met a driver.” 

“Perhaps I may have a few surprises for you out here 
in the wild and woolly West.” 

Helen’s dark eyes showed a sister’s memory of pos- 
sibilities. 

“You’ve started well, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I am simply stunned. 
I expected to find you old and dowdy. Majesty, you’re 
the handsomest thing I ever laid eyes on. You’re so 
splendid and strong, and your skin is like white gold. 
What’s happened to you? What’s changed you? This 
beautiful room, those glorious roses out there, the cool, 
dark sweetness of this wonderful house! I know you. 
Majesty, and, though you never wrote it, I believe you 
have made a home out here. That’s the most stunning 
surprise of all. Come, confess. I know I’ve always been 
selfish and not much of a sister; but if you are happy out 
here I am glad. You were not happy at home. Tell me 
about yourself and about Alfred. Then I shall give you 
all the messages and news from the East.” 

It afforded Madeline exceeding pleasure to have from 
one and all of her guests varied encomiums of her beauti- 
ful home, and a real and warm interest in what promised 
to be a delightfrd and memorable visit. 

Of them all Castleton was the only one who failed to 
show surprise. He greeted her precisely as he had when 
he had last seen her in London. Madeline, rather to her 
astonishment, found meeting him again pleasurable. 
She discovered she liked this imperturbable Englishman. 
Manifestly her capacity for liking any one had immeasur- 
ably enlarged. Quite unexpectedly her old girlish love 
for her younger sister sprang into life, and with it interest 


176 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

in these half-forgotten friends, and a warm regard for 
Edith Wayne, a chum of college days. 

Helen’s party was smaller than Madeline had expected 
it to be. Helen had been careful to select a company of 
good friends, all of whom were well known to Madeline. 
Edith Wayne was a patrician brunette, a serious, soft- 
voiced woman, sweet and kindly, despite a rather bitter 
experience that had left her worldly wise. Mrs. Carroll- 
ton Beck, a plain, lively person, had chaperoned the 
party. The fourth and last of the feminine contingent 
was Miss Dorothy Coombs — Dot, as they called her — 
a young woman of attractive blond prettiness. 

For a man Castleton was of very small stature. He had 
a pink-and-white complexion, a small golden mustache, 
and his heavy eyelids, always drooping, made him look 
dull. His attire, cut to what appeared to be an exag- 
gerated English style, attracted attention to his diminu- 
tive size. He was immaculate and fastidious. Robert 
Weede was a rather large florid young man, remarkable 
only for his good nature. Counting Boyd Harvey, a 
handsome, pale-faced fellow, with the cireless smile of 
the man for whom life had been easy and pleasant, the 
party was complete. 

Dinner was a happy hour, especially for the Mexican 
women who served it and who could not fail to note its 
success. The mingling of low voices and laughter, the 
old, gay, superficial talk, the graciousness of a class which 
lived for the pleasure of things and to make time pass 
pleasurably for others — all took Madeline far back into 
the past. She did not care to return to it, but she saw 
that it was well she had not wholly cut herself off from 
her people and friends. 

When the party adjourned to the porch the heat 
had markedly decreased and the red sun was sinking 
over the red desert. An absence of spoken praise, a 
gradually deepening silence, attested to the impression on 
the visitors of that noble sunset. Just as the last curve 
of red nm vanished beyond the dim Sierra Madres and 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 


177 

the golden lightning began to flare brighter Helen broke 
the silence with an exclamation. 

“It wants only life. Ah, there’s a horse climbing the 
hill! See, he’s up! He has a rider!” 

Madeline knew before she looked the identity of the 
man riding up the mesa. But she did not know until that 
moment how the habit of watching for him at this hour 
had grown upon her. He rode along the rim of the mesa 
and out to the point, where, against the golden background, 
horse and rider stood silhouetted in bold relief. 

“What’s he doing there? Who is he?” inquired the 
curious Helen. 

“That is Stewart, my right-hand man,” replied Made- 
line. “Every day when he is at the ranch he rides up 
there at sunset. I think he likes the ride and the scene; 
but he goes to take a look at the cattle in the valley.” 

“Is he a cowboy?” asked Helen. 

“Indeed yes!” replied Madeline, with a little laugh. 
“You will think so when Stillwell gets hold of you and 
begins to talk.” 

Madeline found it necessary to explain who Stillwell 
was, and what he thought of Stewart, and, while she was 
about it, of her own accord she added a few details of 
Stewart’s fame. 

“El Capitan. How interesting !” mused Helen. “What 
does he look like?” 

“He is superb.” 

Florence handed the field-glass to Helen and bade her 
look. 

“Oh, thank you !” said Helen, as she complied. “There. 
I see him. Indeed, he is superb. What a magnificent 
horse! How still he stands! Why, he seems carved in 
stone.” 

“Let me look?” said Dorothy Coombs, eagerly. 

Helen gave her the glass. 

“You can look. Dot, but that’s all. He’s mine. I saw 
him first.” 

Whereupon Ma(Jeline’s feminine guests held a spirited 


178 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

contest over the field-glass, and three of them made gay, 
bantering boasts not to consider Helen’s self-asserted 
rights. Madeline laughed with the others while she 
watched the dark figure of Stewart and his black outline 
against the sky. There came over her a thought not by 
any means new or strange — she wondered what was in 
Stewart’s mind as he stood there in the solitude and faced 
the desert and the darkening west. Some day she meant 
to ask him. Presently he turned the horse and rode down 
into the shadow creeping up the mesa. 

“Majesty, have you planned any fun, any excitement 
for us?” asked Helen. She was restless, nervous, and did 
not seem to be able to sit still a moment. 

“You will think so when I get through with you,” re- 
plied Madeline. 

“What, for instance?” inquired Helen and Dot and 
Mrs. Beck, in unison. Edith Wayne smiled her interest. 

“Well, I am not counting rides and climbs and golf; 
but these are necessary to train you for trips over into 
Arizona. I want to show you the desert and the 
Aravaipa Canon. We have to go on horseback and pack 
our outfit. If any of you are alive after those trips 
and want more we shall go up into the mountains. I 
should like very much to know what you each want 
particularly.” 

“I’ll tell you,” replied Helen, promptly. “Dot will be 
the same out here as she was in the East. She wants 
to look bashfully down at her hand — a hand imprisoned 
in another, by the way — and listen to a man talk poetry 
about her eyes. If cowboys don’t make love that way 
Dot’s visit will be a failure. Now Elsie Beck wants solely 
to be revenged upon us for dragging her out here. She 
wants some dreadful thing to happen to us. I don’t 
know what’s in Edith’s head, but it isn’t fun. Bobby 
wants to be near Elsie, and no more. Boyd wants what 
he has always wanted — the only thing he ever wanted 
that he didn’t get. Castleton has a horrible bloodthirsty 
desire to kill something.” 


FRIENDS FROM THE EAST 


179 


“I declare now, I want to ride and camp out, also,^’ 
protested Castleton. 

“As for myself,” went on Helen, “I want — Oh, if I 
only knew what it is that I want! Well, I know I want 
to be outdoors, to get into the open, to feel sun and wind, 
to bum some color into my white face. I want some 
flesh and blood and life. I am tired out. Beyond all that 
I don’t know very well. I’ll try to keep Dot from attach- 
ing all the cowboys to her train.” 

“What a diversity of wants!” said Madeline. 

“Above all. Majesty, we want something to happen,” 
concluded Helen, with passionate finality. 

“My dear sister, maybe you will have your wish ful- 
filled,” replied Madeline, soberly. “Edith, Helen has 
made me curious about your especial yearning.” 

“Majesty, it is only that I wanted to be with you for 
a while,” replied this old friend. 

There was in the wistful reply, accompanied by a dark 
and eloquent glance of eyes, what told Madeline of Edith’s 
understanding, of her sympathy, and perhaps a betrayal 
of her own unquiet soul. It saddened Madeline. How 
many women might there not be who had the longing to 
break down the bars of their cage, but had not the spirit ! 


i8o 


XIII 

COWBOY GOLF 

I N the whirl of the succeeding days it was a mooted 
question whether Madeline’s guests or her cowboys 
or herself got the keenest enjo3mient out of the flying 
time. Considering the sameness of the cowboys’ ordinary 
life, she was inclined to think they made the most of the 
present. Stillwell and Stewart, however, had found the 
situation trying. The work of the ranch had to go on, 
and some of it got sadly neglected. Stillwell could not 
resist the ladies any more than he could resist the fun 
in the extraordinary goings-on of the cowboys. Stewart 
alone kept the business of cattle-raising from a serious 
setback. Early and late he was in the saddle, driving 
the lazy Mexicans whom he had hired to relieve the 
cowboys. 

One morning in June Madeline was sitting on the porch 
with her merry friends when Stillwell appeared on the 
corral path. He had not come to consult Madeline for 
several days — an omission so unusual as to be remarked. 
“Here comes Bill — in trouble,” laughed Florence. 
Indeed, he bore some faint resemblance to a thunder- 
cloud as he approached the porch; but the greetings he 
got from Madeline’s party, especially from Helen and 
Dorothy, chased away the blackness from his face and 
brought the wonderful wrinkling smile. 

“Miss Majesty, sure I’m a sad demoralized old cattle- 
man,” he said, presently. “An’ I’m in need of a heap of 
help.” 

“What’s wrong now?” asked Madeline, with her en- 
couraging smile. 


COWBOY GOLF 


i8i 


“Wal, it’s so amazin’ strange what cowboys will do. 
I jest am about to give up. Why, you might say my cow- 
boys were all on strike for vacations. What do you think 
of that? We’ve changed the shifts, shortened hours, let 
one an’ another off duty, hired Greasers, an’, in fact, done 
everythin’ that could be thought of. But this vacation 
idee growed worse. When Stewart set his foot down, 
then the boys begin to get sick. Never in my bom days 
as a cattleman have I heerd of so many diseases. An’ you 
ought to see how lame an’ crippled an’ weak many of the 
boys have got all of a sudden. The idee of a cowboy 
cornin’ to me with a sore finger an’ askin’ to be let off for 
a day! There’s Booly. Now I’ve knowed a boss to fall 
all over him, an’ onct he rolled down a canon. Never 
bothered him at all. He’s got a blister on his heel, a 
ridin’ blister, an’ he says it’s goin’ to blood-poisonin’ if 
he doesn’t rest. There’s Jim Bell. He’s developed what 
he says is spinal mengalootis, or some such like. There’s 
Frankie Slade. He swore he had scarlet fever because 
his face burnt so red, I guess, an’ when I hollered that 
scarlet fever was contagious an’ he must be put away 
somewhere, he up an’ says he guessed it wasn’t that. 
But he was sure awful sick an’ needed to loaf around an’ 
be amused. Why, even Nels doesn’t want to work these 
days. If it wasn’t for Stewart, who’s had Greasers with 
the cattle, I don’t know what I’d do.” 

“Why all this sudden illness and idleness?” asked 
Madeline. 

“Wal, you see, the tmth is every blamed cowboy on 
the range except Stewart thinks it’s his bounden duty 
to entertain the ladies.” 

“I think that is just fine!” exclaimed Dorothy Coombs; 
and she joined in the general laugh. 

“Stewart, then, doesn’t care to help entertain us?” in- 
quired Helen, in curious interest. 

“Wal, Miss Helen, Stewart is sure different from the 
other cowboys,” replied Stillwell. “Yet he used to be 
like them. There never was a cowboy fuller of the de\dl 


182 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


than Gene. But he’s changed. He’s foreman here, an’ 
that must be it. All the responsibility rests on him. He 
sme has no time for amusin’ the ladies.” 

“I imagine that is our loss,” said Edith Wayne, in her 
earnest way. “I admire him.” 

“Stillwell, you need not be so distressed with what is 
only gallantry in the boys, even if it does make a tem- 
porary confusion in the work,” said Madeline. 

“Miss Majesty, all I said is not the half, nor the quar- 
ter, nor nuthin’ of what’s troublin’ me,” answered he, 
sadly. 

“Very well; unburden yourself.” 

“Wal, the cowboys, exceptin’ Gene, have gone plumb 
batty, jest plain crazy over this heah game of gol-lof.” 

A merry peal of mirth greeted Stillwell’s solemn asser- 
tion. 

“Oh, Stillwell, you are in fun,” replied Madeline. 

“I hope to die if I’m not in daid earnest,” declared the 
cattleman. “It’s an amazin’ strange fact. Ask Flo. 
She’ll tell you. She knows cowboys, an’ how if they ever 
start on somethin’ they ride it as they ride a hoss.” 

Florence being appealed to, and evidently feeling all 
eyes upon her, modestly replied that Stillwell had scarcely 
misstated the situation. 

“Cowboys play like they work or fight,” she added. 
“They give their whole souls to it. They are great big 
simple boys.” 

“Indeed they are,” said Madeline. “Oh, I’m glad if 
they like the game of golf. They have so little play.” 

“Wal, somethin’s got to be did if we’re to go on raisin’ 
cattle at Her Majesty’s Rancho,” replied Stillwell. He 
appeared both deliberate and resigned. 

Madeline remembered that despite Stillwell’s simplicity 
he was as deep as any of his cowboys, and there was abso- 
lutely no gaging him where possibilities of fun were con- 
cerned. Madeline fancied that his exaggerated talk about 
the cowboys’ sudden craze for golf was in line with cer- 
tain other remarkable tales that had lately emanated from 


COWBOY GOLF 


183 

him. Some very strange things had occurred of late, and 
it was impossible to tell whether or not they were acci- 
dents, mere coincidents, or deep-laid, skilfully worked- 
out designs of the fun-loving cowboys. Certainly there 
had been great fun, and at the expense of her guests, 
particularly Castleton. So Madeline was at a loss to 
know what to think about Stillwell’s latest elaboration. 
From mere force of habit she S3unpathized with him and 
found difficulty in doubting his apparent sincerity. 

“To go back a ways,” went on Stillwell, as Madeline 
looked up expectantly, “you recollect what pride the 
boys took in fixin’ up that gol-lof course out on the mesa? 
Wal, they worked on that job, an’ though I never seen 
any other course. I’ll gamble yours can’t be beat. The 
boys was sure curious about that game. You recollect 
also how they all wanted to see you an’ your brother 
play, an’ be caddies for you? Wal, whenever you’d quit 
they’d go to work tryin’ to play the game. Monty Price, 
he was the leadin’ spirit. Old as I am. Miss Majesty, an’ 
used as I am to cowboy excentrikities, I nearly dropped 
daid when I heered that little hobble-footed, bumed-up 
Montana cow-puncher say there wasn’t any game too 
swell for him, an’ gol-lof was just his speed. Serious as a 
preacher, mind you, he was. An’ he was always prac- 
tisin’. When Stewart gave him charge of the course an’ 
the club-house an’ all them funny sticks, wh}^ Monty was 
tickled to death. You see, Monty is sensitive that he 
ain’t much good any more for cowboy work. He was 
glad to have a job that he didn’t feel he was hangin’ to 
by kindness. Wal, he practised the game, an’ he read 
the books in the club-house, an’ he got the boys to doin’ 
the same. That wasn’t very hard, I reckon. They 
played early an’ late an’ in the moonlight. For a while 
Monty was coach, an’ the boys stood it. But pretty soon 
Frankie Slade got puffed on his game, an’ he had to have 
it out with Monty. Wal, Monty beat him bad. Then 
one after another the other boys tackled Monty. He 
beat them all.' After that they split up an’ begin to play 


184 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

matcnes, two on a side. For a spell this worked fine. 
But cowboys can't never be satisfied long onless they win 
all the time. Monty an' Link Stevens, both cripples, you 
might say, joined forces an' elected to beat all comers. 
Wal, they did, an' that's the trouble. Long an' patient 
the other cowboys tried to beat them two game legs, an' 
hevn’t done it. Mebbe if Monty an' Link was perfectly 
sound in their legs like the other cowboys there wouldn't 
hev been such a holler. But no sound cowboys 'll ever 
stand for a disgrace like that. Why, down at the bunks 
in the evenin’s it’s some mortifyin’ the way Monty an* 
Link crow over the rest of the outfit. They've taken on 
superior airs. You couldn’t reach up to Monty with 
a trimmed spruce pole. An' Link — wal, he’s just amazin' 
scornful. 

‘“It’s a swell game, ain’t it?' says Link, powerful sar- 
castic. ‘Wal, what’s hurtin' you low-down common cow- 
men? You keep harpin’ on Monty’s game leg an' on 
my game leg. If we hed good legs we’d beat you all the 
wuss. It’s brains that wins in gol-lof. Brains an' 
airstoocratik blood, which of the same you fellers sure 
hev little.' 

“An’ then Monty he blows smoke powerftd careless an' 
superior, an’ he says : 

‘“Sure it’s a swell game. You cow-headed gents think 
beef an' brawn ought to hev the call over skill an’ gray 
matter. You’ll all hev to back up an' get down. Go out 
an’ learn the game. You don’t know a baffy from a 
Chinee sandwich. All you can do is waggle with a club 
an' fozzle the ball.' 

“Whenever Monty gets to usin' them queer names the 
boys go round kind of dotty. Monty an’ Link hev got 
the books an' directions of the game, an' they won’t let 
the other boys see them. They show the rules, but that’s 
all. An’, of course, every game ends in a row almost be- 
fore it’s started. The boys are all turrible in earnest about 
this gol-lof. An' I want to say, for the good of ranchin’, 
not to mention a possible fight, that Monty an’ Link hev 


COWBOY GOLF 


185 

got to be beat. There’ll be no peace round this ranch till 
that’s done.” u 

Madeline’s guests were much amused. As for herself, 
in spite of her scarcely considered doubt, Stillwell’s tale 
of woe occasioned her anxiety. However, she could hard- 
ly control her mirth. 

“What in the world can I do?” 

“Wal, I reckon I couldn’t say. I only come to you for 
advice. It seems that a queer kind of game has locoed 
my cowboys, an’ for the time bein’ ranchin’ is at a stand- 
still. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but cowbo3rs are as 
strange as wild cattle. All I’m sure of is that the conceit 
has got to be taken out of Monty an’ Link. Onct, just 
onct, win square it, an’ then we can resoome our 
work.” 

“Stillwell, listen,” said Madeline, brightly. “We’ll ar- 
range a match game, a foursome, between Monty and 
Link and your best picked team. Castleton, who is an 
expert golfer, will umpire. My sister, and friends, and I 
will take tiums as caddies for your team. That will be 
fair, considering yours is the weaker. Caddies may 
coach, and perhaps expert advice is all that is necessary 
for your team to defeat Monty’s.” 

“A grand idee,” declared Stillwell, with instant de- 
cision. “When can we have this match game?” 

“Why, to-day — this afternoon. We’ll all ride out to 
the links.” 

“Wal, I reckon I’ll be some indebted to you, Miss Maj- 
esty, an’ all your guests,” replied Stillwell, warmly. He 
rose with sombrero in hand, and a twinkle in his eye that 
again prompted Madeline to wonder. “An’ now I’ll be 
goin’ to fix up for the game of cowboy gol-lof. AdiosF 

The idea was as enthusiastically received by Madeline’s 
guests as it had been by Stillwell. They were highly 
amused and speculative to the point of taking sides and 
making wagers on their choice. Moreover, this situation 
so frankly revealed by Stillwell had completed their deep 
mystification. They were now absolutely nonplussed by 


i86 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


the singular character of American cowboys. Madeline 
was pleased to note how seriously they had taken the old 
cattleman’s story. She had a little throb of wild ex- 
pectancy that made her both fear and delight in the 
afternoon’s prospect. 

The June days had set in warm; in fact, hot during the 
noon hours; and this had inculcated in her insatiable 
visitors a tendency to profit by the experience of those 
used to the Southwest. They indulged in the restful 
siesta during the heated term of the day. 

Madeline was awakened by Majesty’s well-known 
whistle and pounding on the gravel. Then she heard the 
other horses. When she went out she found her party 
assembled in gala golf attire, and with spirits to match 
their costumes. Castleton, especially, appeared resplen- 
dent in a golf coat that beggared description. Madeline 
had faint misgivings when she reflected on what Monty 
and Nels and Nick might do under the influence of that 
blazing garment. 

“Oh, Majesty,” cried Helen, as Madeline went up to 
her horse, ‘ ‘ don’t make him kneel ! Try that flying mount. 
We all want to see it. It’s so stunning.” 

“But that way, too, I must have him kneel,” said 
Madeline, “or I can’t reach the stirrup. He’s so tre- 
mendously high.” 

Madeline had to yield to the laughing insistence of her 
friends, and after all of them except Florence were up 
she made Majesty go down on one knee. Then she stood 
on his left side, facing back, and took a good firm grip 
on the bridle and pommel and his mane. After she had 
slipped the toe of her boot firmly into the stirrup she 
called to Majesty. He jumped and swung her up into 
the saddle. 

“Now just to see how it ought to be done watch Flor- 
ence,” said Madeline. 

The Western girl was at her best in riding-habit and 
with her horse. It was beautiful to see the ease and grace 
with which she accomplished the cowboys’ flying mount. 


COWBOY GOLF 


187 

Then she led the party down the slope and across the flat 
to climb the mesa. 

Madeline never saw a group of her cowboys without 
looking them over, almost unconsciously, for her foreman, 
Gene Stewart. This afternoon, as usual, he was not pres- 
ent. However, she now had a sense — of which she was 
wholly conscious — that she was both disappointed and ir- 
ritated. He had really not been attentive to her guests, 
and he, of all her cowboys, was the one of whom they 
wanted most to see something. Helen, particularly, 
had asked to have him attend the match. But Stewart 
was with the cattle. Madeline thought of his faithful- 
ness, and was ashamed of her momentary lapse into that 
old imperious habit of desiring things irrespective of 
reason. 

Stewart, however, immediately slipped out of her mind 
as she surveyed the group of cowboys on the links. By 
actual count there were sixteen, not including Stillwell. 
And the same number of splendid horses, all shiny and 
clean, grazed on the rim in the care of Mexican lads. The 
cowboys were on dress-parade, looking very different in 
Madeline’s eyes, at least, from the way cowboys usually 
appeared. But they were real and natural to her guests; 
and they were so picturesque that they might have been 
stage cowboys instead of real ones. Sombreros with silver 
buckles and horsehair bands were in evidence; and bright 
silk scarfs, embroidered vests, fringed and ornamented 
chaps, huge swinging guns, and clinking silver spurs lent 
a festive appearance. 

Madeline and her party were at once eagerly surrounded 
by the cowboys, and she found it difficult to repress a 
smile. If these cowboys were still remarkable to her, 
what must they be to her guests? 

“Wal, you-all raced over, I seen,” said Stillwell, taking 
Madeline’s bridle. “Get down — get down. We’re sure 
amazin’ glad an’ proud. An’, Miss Majesty, I’m offerin’ 
to beg pawdin for the way the boys are packin’ guns. 
Mebbe it ain’t polite. But it’s Stewart’s orders.” 


188 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


' ‘ Stewart ’s orders !’ ’ echoed Madeline. Her friends were 
suddenly silent. 

“I reckon he won’t take no chances on the boys bein’ 
surprised sudden by raiders. An’ there’s raiders operatin’ 
in from the Guadalupes. That’s all. Nothin’ to worry 
over. I was just explainin’.” 

Madeline, with several of her party, expressed relief, 
but Helen showed excitement and then disappointment. 

“Oh, I want something to happen!” she cried. 

Sixteen pairs of keen cowboy eyes fastened intently 
upon her pretty, petulant face; and Madeline divined, if 
Helen did not, that the desired consiunmation was not 
far off. 

“So do I,” said Dot Coombs. “It would be perfectly 
lovely to have a real adventure.” 

The gaze of the sixteen cowboys shifted and sought the 
demure face of this other discontented girl. Madeline 
laughed, and Stillwell wore his strange, moving smile. 

“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won’t have to go home 
unhappy,” he said. “Why, as boss of this heah outfit I’d 
feel myself disgraced forever if you didn’t have your 
wish. Just wait. An’ now, ladies, the matter on hand 
may not be amusin’ or excitin’ to you; but to this heah 
cowboy outfit it’s powerful important. An’ all the help 
you can give us will sure be thankfully received. Take 
a look across the links. Do you-all see them two apologies 
for human bein’s prancin’ like a couple of hobbled broncs? 
Wal, you’re gazin’ at Monty Price an’ Link Stevens, who 
have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their 
old bunkies. They’re practisin’ for the toomament. 
They don’t want my boys to see how they handle them 
crooked clubs.” 

“Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline. 

Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, 
and showed something of confusion and perplexity. 

“I’ve sixteen boys, an’ they all want to play,” he re- 
plied. “Pickin’ the team ain’t goin’ to be an easy job. 
Mebbe it won’t be healthy, either. There’s Nels and Nick, 


COWBOY GOLF 


189 

They just stated cheerful-like that if they didn’t play we 
won’t have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an’ 
Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of 
them crooked clubs.” 

'‘I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee 
and choose the two who drive the farthest,” said Madeline. 

Stillwell’s perplexed face lighted up. 

“Wal, that’s a plumb good idee. The boys ’ll stand 
for that.” 

Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys- 
round the ladies. 

“Grap a rope — I mean a club — all you cow-punchers, 
an’ march over hyar an’ take a swipe at this little white 
bean.” 

The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was con- 
siderable difficulty over the choice of clubs and who should 
try first. The latter question had to be adjusted by lot. 
However, after Frankie Slade made several ineffectual 
attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last 
to send it only a few yards, the other players were not 
so eager to follow. Stillwell had to push Booly forward, 
and Booly executed a most miserable shot and retired 
to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts 
of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme 
difficulty of making a good drive. 

“Wal, Nick, it’s your turn,” said Stillwell. 

“Bill, I ain’t so all-fired particular about playin’,” re- 
plied Nick. 

“Why? You was roarin’ about it a little while ago. 
Afraid to show how bad you’ll play?” 

“Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cow- 
punchers,” answered Nick, with spirit. “ I’m appreciatin’ 
how bad they play, an’ I’m not mean enough to show 
them up.’* 

“Wal, you’ve got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I 
know you never seen a gol-lof stick in your life. What’s 
more. I’ll bet you can’t hit that little ball square — not in 
a dozen cracks at it.” 


190 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Bill, Fm also too much of a gent to take your money- 
But you know Fm from Missotui. Gimme a club/’ 

Nick’s angry confidence seemed to evaporate as one 
after another he took up and handled the clubs. It was 
plain that he had never before wielded one. But, also, it 
was plain that he was not the kind of a man to give in. 
Finally he selected a driver, looked doubtfully at the 
small knob, and then stepped into position on the teeing- 
ground. 

Nick Steele stood six feet four inches in height. He 
had the rider’s wiry slenderness, yet he was broad of 
shoulder. His arms were long. Manifestly he was an 
exceedingly powerful man. He swing the driver aloft 
and whirled it down with a tremendous swing. Crack! 
The white ball disappeared, and from where it had been 
rose a tiny cloud of dust. 

Madeline’s quick sight caught the ball as it lined some- 
what to the right. It was shooting low and level with the 
speed of a bullet. It went up and up in swift, beautiful 
flight, then lost its speed and began to sail, to curve, to 
drop ; and it fell out of sight beyond the rim of the mesa. 
Madeline had never seen a drive that approached this 
one. It was magnificent, beyond belief except for actual 
evidence of her own eyes. 

The yelling of the cowboys probably brought Nick 
Steele out of the astounding spell wfith which he beheld 
his shot. Then Nick, suddenly alive to the situation, 
recovered from his trance and, resting nonchalantly upon 
his club, he surveyed Stillwell and the boys. After their 
first surprised outburst they were dumb. 

“You-all seen thet?” Nick grandly waved his hand. 
“Thought I was joshin’, didn’t you? Why, I used to go 
to St. Louis an’ Kansas City to play this here game. 
There was some talk of the golf clubs takin’ me down 
East to play the champions. But I never cared fer the 
game. Too easy fer me! Them fellers back in Missouri 
were a lot of cheap dubs, anyhow, always kickin’ because 
whenever I hit a ball hard I always lost it. Why, I hed 


CO IV BOY GOLF 


i9i‘ 

to hit sort of left-handed to let ’em stay in my class. Now 
you-all can go ahead an’ play Monty an’ Link. I could 
beat ’em both, playin’ with one hand, if I wanted to. 
But I ain’t interested. I jest hit thet ball off the mesa 
to show you. I sure wouldn’t be seen playin’ on your 
team.” 

With that Nick sauntered away toward the horses. 
Stillwell appeared crushed. And not a scornful word 
was hurled after Nick, which fact proved the nature of 
his victory. Then Nels strode into the limelight. As 
far as it was possible for this iron-faced cowboy to be so, 
he was bland and suave. He remarked to Stillwell and 
the other cowboys that sometimes it was painful for them 
to judge of the gifts of superior cowboys such as belonged 
to Nick and himself. He picked up the club Nick had 
used and called for a new ball. Stillwell carefully built up 
a little mound of sand and, placing the ball upon it, 
squared away to watch. He looked grim and expectant. 

Nels was not so large a man as Nick, and did not look 
so formidable as he waved his club at the gaping cowboys. 
Still he was lithe, tough, strong. Briskly, with a debonair 
manner, he stepped up and then delivered a mighty swing 
at the ball. He missed. The power and momentum of 
his swing flung him off his feet, and he actually turned 
upside down and spun round on his head. The cow- 
boys howled. Stillwell’s stentorian laugh rolled across 
the mesa. Madeline and her guests found it impossible 
ko restrain their mirth. And when Nels got up he cast 
/ a reproachful glance at Madeline. His feelings were hurt. 

His second attempt, not by any means so violent, re- 
sulted in as clean a miss as the first, and brought jeers 
from the cowboys. Nels’s red face flamed redder. Angrily 
he swung again. The mound of sand spread over the 
teeing-ground and the exasperating little ball rolled a few 
inches. This time he had tc build up the sand mound and 
replace the ball himself. Stillwell stood scornfully by, 
and the boys addressed remarks to Nels. 

“Take off them blinders,” said one. 


192 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Nels, your eyes are shore bad,” said another. 

“You don’t hit where you look.” 

“Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp.” 

“Why, you dog-goned old ftlle, you cain’t hit thet 
bawl.” 

Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure. 
Then carefully he gathered himself together, gaged dis- 
tance, balanced the club, swung cautiously. And the 
head of the club made a beautiful curve round the ball. 

“Shore it’s jest thet crooked club,” he declared. 

He changed clubs and made another signal failure. 
Rage suddenly possessing him, he began to swing wildly. 
Always, it appeared, the illusive little ball was not where 
he aimed. Stillwell hunched his huge bulk, leaned hands 
on knees, and roared his riotous mirth. The cowboys 
leaped up and down in glee. 

“You cain’t hit thet bawl,” sang out one of the noisiest. 

A few more whirling, desperate lunges on the part of 
Nels, all as futile as if the ball had been thin air, finally 
brought to the dogged cowboy a realization that golf was 
beyond him. 

Stillwell bawled: “Oh, haw, haw, haw! Nels, you’re — 
too old — eyes no good!” 

Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened 
up with the red leaving his face, then the real pride and 
fire of the man showed. Deliberately he stepped off ten 
paces and turned toward the little mound upon which 
rested the ball. His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand 
like a claw. 

“Aw, Nels, this is fun!” yelled Stillwell. 

But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and 
the report came with the action. Chips flew from the 
golf-ball as it tumbled from the mound. Nels had hit it 
without raising the dust. Then he dropped the gun back 
in its sheath and faced the cowboys. 

“Mebbe my eyes ain’t so orful bad,” he said, coolly, 
and started to walk off. 

“But look ah-heah, Nels,” yelled Stillwell, “we com^ 


COWBOY GOLF 


19^ 

out to play gol-lof! We can’t let you knock the ball 
around with your gun. What’d you want to get mad for? 
It’s only fun. Now you an’ Nick hang round heah an’ 
be sociable. We ain’t depreciatin’ your company none, 
nor your usefulness on occasions. An’ if you just hain’t 
got inborn politeness sufficient to do the gallant before 
the ladies, why, remember Stewart’s orders.” 

“Stewart’s orders?” queried Nels, coming to a sudden 
halt. 

“That’s what I said,” replied Stillwell, with asperity. 
“His orders. Are you forgettin’ orders? Wal, you’re a 
fine cowboy. You an’ Nick an’ Monty, ’specially, are 
to obey orders.” 

Nels took off his sombrero and scratched his head. 
“Bill, I reckon I’m some forgetful. But I was mad. I’d 
’a’ remembered pretty soon, an’ mebbe my manners.” 

“Sure you would,” replied Stillwell. “Wal, now, we 
don’t seem to be proceedin’ much with my gol-lof team. 
Next ambitious player step up.” 

In Ambrose, who showed some skill in driving, Stillwell 
found one of his team. The succeeding players, however, 
were so poor and so evenly matched that the earnest 
Stillwell was in despair. He lost his temper just as speed- 
ily as Nels had. Finally Ed Linton’s wife appeared rid- 
ing up with Ambrose’s wife, and perhaps this helped, for 
Ed suddenly disclosed ability that made Stillwell single 
him out. 

“Let me coach you a little,” said Bill. 

“Sure, if you like,” replied Ed. “But I know more 
about this game than you do.” 

“Wal, then, let’s see you hit a ball straight. Seems to 
me you got good all-fired quick. It’s amazin’ strange.” 
Here Bill looked around to discover the two young wives 
modestly casting eyes of admiration upon their hus- 
bands. “Haw, haw! It ain’t so darned strange. Mebbe 
that ’ll help some. Now, Ed, stand up and don’t sling 
your club as if you was ropin’ a steer. Come round easy- 
like an’ hit straight.” 


194 the light of WESTERN STARS 

Ed made several attempts which, although better than 
those of his predecessors, were rather discouraging to the 
exacting coach. Presently, after a particularly atrocious 
shot, Stillwell strode in distress here and there, and finally 
stopped a dozen paces or more in front of the teeing- 
ground. Ed, who for a cowboy was somewhat phleg- 
matic, calmly made ready for another attempt. 

“Fore!” he called. 

Stillwell stared. 

yelled Ed. 

“Whv're you hollerin’ that way at me?” demanded 
Bill. 

“I mean for you to lope off the horizon. Get back 
from in front.” 

“Oh, that was one of them dumed crazy words Monty 
is always hollerin’. Wal, I reckon I’m safe enough hyar. 
You couldn’t hit me in a million years.” 

“Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed. 

“ Didn’t I say you couldn’t hit me? What am I coach- 
in’ you for? It’s because you hit crooked, ain’t it? Wal, 
go ahaid an’ break your back.” 

Ed Linton was a short, heavy man, and his stocky build 
gave evidence of considerable strength. His former 
strokes had not been made at the expense of exertion, 
but now he got ready for a supreme effort. A sudden 
silence clamped down upon the exuberant cowboys. It 
was one of those fateful moments when the air was charged 
with disaster. As Ed swung the club it fairly whistled. 

Crack! Instantly came a thump. But no one saw 
the ball until it dropped from Stillwell’s shrinking body. 
His big hands went spasmodically to the place that hurt, 
and a terrible groan rumbled from him. 

Then the cowboys broke into a, frenzy of mirth that 
seemed to find adequate expression only in dancing and 
rolling accompaniment to their howls. Stillwell recovered 
his dignity as soon as he caught his breath, and he ad- 
vanced with a rueful face. 

“Wal, boys, it’s on Bill,” he said. “I’m a livin’ proof 


COWBOY GOLF 


195 

of the pig-headedness of mankind. Ed, you win. You’re 
captain of the team. You hit straight, an’ if I hadn’t 
been obstructin’ the general atmosphere that ball would 
sure have gone clear to the Chiricahuas.” 

Then making a megaphone of his huge hands, he yelled 
a loud blast of defiance at Monty and Link. 

“Hey, you swell gol-lofers! We’re waitin’. Come on 
if you ain’t scared.” 

Instantly Monty and Link quit practising, and like two 
emperors came stalking across the links. 

“Guess my bluff didn’t work much,” said Stillwell. 
Then he turned to Madeline and her friends. “Sure I 
hope. Miss Majesty, that you-all won’t weaken an’ go 
over to the enemy. Monty is some eloquent, an’, besides, 
he has a way of gettin’ people to agree with him. He’ll 
be plump wild when he heahs what he an’ Link are up 
against. But it’s a square deal, because he wouldn’t help 
us or lend the book that shows how to play. An’, be- 
sides, it’s policy for us to beat him. Now, if you’ll elect 
who’s to be caddies an’ umpire I’ll be powerful obliged.” 

Madeline’s friends were hugely amused over the pros- 
pective match; but, except for Dorothy and Castleton, 
'they disclaimed any ambition for active participation. 
Accordingly, Madeline appointed Castleton to judge the 
play, Dorothy to act as caddie for Ed Linton, and she 
herself to be caddie for Ambrose. While Stillwell beam- 
ingly announced this momentous news to his team and 
supporters Monty and Link were striding up. 

Both were diminutive in size, bow-legged, lame in one 
foot, and altogether unprepossessing. Link was young, 
and Monty’s years, more than twice Link’s, had left their 
mark. But it would have been impossible to tell Monty’s 
age. As Stillwell said, Monty was burned to the color 
and hardness of a cinder. He never minded the heat, and 
always wore heavy sheepskin chaps with the wool out- 
side. This made him look broader than he was long. 
Link, partial to leather, had, since he became Madeline’s 
chauffeur, taken to leather altogether. He carried no 


196 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

weapon, but Monty wore a huge gun-sheath and gun. 
Link smoked a cigarette and looked coolly impudent. 
Monty was dark-faced, swaggering, for all the world like 
a barbarian chief. 

“That Monty makes my flesh creep,” said Helen, low- 
voiced. “Really, Mr. Stillwell, is he so bad — desperate — 
as I’ve heard? Did he ever kill anybody?” 

“Sure. ’Most as many as Nels,” replied Stillwell, 
cheerfully. 

“Oh! And is that nice Mr. Nels a desperado, too? I 
wouldn’t have thought so. He’s so kind and old-fashioned 
and soft- voiced.” 

“Nels is sure an example of the dooplicity of men. Miss 
Helen. Don’t you listen to his soft voice. He’s really 
as bad as a side-winder rattlesnake.” 

At this juncture Monty and Link reached the teeing- 
ground, and Stillwell went out to meet them. The other 
cowboys pressed forward to surround the trio. Madeline 
heard Stillwell’s voice, and evidently he was explaining 
that his team was to have skilled advice during the play. 
Suddenly there came from the center of the group a loud, 
angry roar that broke off as suddenly. Then followed ex- 
cited voices all mingled together. Presently Monty ap- 
peared, breaking away from restraining hands, and he 
strode toward Madeline. 

Monty Price was a type of cowboy who had never been 
known to speak to a woman unless he was first addressed, 
and then he answered in blunt, awkward shyness. Upon 
this great occasion, however, it appeared that he meant 
to protest or plead with Madeline, for he showed stress 
of emotion. Madeline had never gotten acquainted with 
Monty. She was a little in awe, if not in fear, of him, and 
now she found it imperative for her to keep in mind that 
more than any other of the wild fellows on her ranch this 
one should be dealt with as if he were a big boy. 

Monty removed his sombrero — something he had never 
done before — and the single instant when it was off was 
long enough to show his head entirely bald. This was 


COWBOY GOLF 


197 


one of the hall-marks of that terrible Montana prairie 
fire through which he had fought to save the life of a 
child. Madeline did not forget it, and all at once she 
wanted to take Monty’s side. Remembering Stillwell’s 
wisdom, however, she forebore yielding to sentiment, and 
called upon her wits. 

“Miss — Miss Hammond,” began Monty, stammering, 
“I’m extendin’ admirin’ greetin’s to you an’ your friends. 
Link an’ me are right down proud to play the match game 
with you watchin’. But Bill says you’re goin’ to caddie 
for his team an’ coach ’em on the fine points. An’ I 
want to ask, all respectful, if thet’s fair an’ square?” 

“ Monty, that is for you to say,” replied Madeline. “ It 
was my suggestion. But if you object in the least, of 
course we shall withdraw. It seems fair to me, because 
you have learned the game; you are expert, and I under- 
stand the other boys have no chance with you. Then 
you have coached Link. I think it would be sportsman- 
like of you to accept the handicap.” 

“Aw, a handicap! Thet was what Bill was drivin’ at. 
Why didn’t he say so? Every time Bill comes to a word 
thet’s pie to us old golfers he jest stumbles. Miss Maj- 
esty, you’ve made it all clear as print. An’ I may say 
with becomin’ modesty thet you wasn’t mistaken none 
about me bein’ sportsmanlike. Me an’ Link was bom 
thet way. An’ we accept the handicap. Lackin’ thet 
handicap, I reckon Link an’ me would have no ambish to 
play our most be-ootiful game. An’ thankin’ you. Miss 
Majesty, an’ all your friends, I want to add thet if Bill’s 
outfit couldn’t beat us before, they’ve got a swell chanct 
now, with you ladies a- watchin’ me an’ Link.” 

Monty had seemed to expand with pride as he de- 
livered this speech, and at the end he bowed low and 
turned away. He joined the group round Stillwell. Once 
more there was animated discussion and argument and 
expostulation. One of the cowboys came for Castleton 
and led him away to exploit upon ground mles. 

It seemed to Madeline that the game never would be- 


198 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

gin. She strolled on the rim of the mesa, arm in arm with 
Edith Wayne, and while Edith talked she looked out over 
the gray valley leading to the rugged black mountains 
and the vast red wastes. In the foreground on the gray 
slope she saw cattle in movement and cowboys riding 
to and fro. She thought of Stewart. Then Boyd Har- 
vey came for them, saying all details had been arranged. 
Stillwell met them half-way, and this cool, dry, old cattle- 
man, whose face and manner scarcely changed at the 
announcement of a cattle-raid, now showed extreme 
agitation. 

“ Wal, Miss Majesty, we’ve gone an’ made a foozle right 
at the start,” he said, dejectedly. 

“A foozle? But the game has not yet begun,” replied 
Madeline. 

“A bad start, I mean. It’s amazin’ bad, an’ we’re 
licked already.” 

“What in the world is wrong?” 

She wanted to laugh, but Stillwell’s distress restrained 
her. 

“Wal, it’s this way. That dam Monty is as cute an’ 
slick as a fox. After he got done declaimin’ about the 
handicap he an’ Link was so happy to take, he got Castle- 
ton over hyar an’ drove us all dotty with his crazy gol-lof 
names. Then he borrowed Castleton’s gol-lof coat. I 
reckon borrowed is some kind word. He just about took 
that blazin’ coat off the Englishman. Though I ain’t 
sayin’ but that Castleton was agreeable when he tumbled 
to Monty’s meanin’. Which was nothin’ more ’n to break 
Ambrose’s heart. That coat dazzles Ambrose. You 
know how vain Ambrose is. Why, he’d die to get to 
wear that Englishman’s gol-lof coat. An’ Monty fore- 
stalled him. It’s plumb pitiful to see the look in Am- 
brose’s eyes. He won’t be able to play much. Then 
what do you think? Monty fixed Ed Linton, all right. 
Usually Ed is easy-goin’ an’ cool. But now he’s on the 
rampage. Wal, mebbe it’s news to you to learn that 
Ed’s wife is powerful, turrible jealous of him. Ed was 


COWBOY GOLF 


199 


somethin’ of a devil with the wimmen. Monty goes over 
an’ tells Beulah — that’s Ed’s wife — that Ed is goin’ to have 
for caddie the lovely Miss Dorothy with the goo-goo 
eyes. I reckon this was some disrespectful, but with all 
doo respect to Miss Dorothy she has got a pair of un- 
bridled eyes. Mebbe it’s just natural for her to look at 
a feller like that. Oh, it’s all right; I’m not sayin’ any- 
thin’! I know it’s all proper an’ regular for girls back 
East to use their eyes. But out hyar it’s bound to result 
disastrous. All the boys talk about among themselves 
is Miss Dot’s eyes, an’ all they brag about is which feller 
is the luckiest. Anyway, sure Ed’s wife knows it. An’ 
Monty up an’ told her that it was fine for her to come 
out an’ see how swell Ed was prancin’ round under the 
light of Miss Dot’s brown eyes. Beulah calls over Ed, 
figgertively speakin’, ropes him for a minnit. Ed comes 
back huggin’ a grouch as big as a hill. Oh, it was funny! 
He was goin’ to punch Monty’s haid off. An’ Monty 
stands there an’ laughs. Says Monty, sarcastic as alkali 
water: ‘Ed, we-all knowed you was a heap married man, 
but 3^ou’re some locoed to give yourself away.’ That 
settled Ed. He’s some touchy about the way Beulah 
henpecks him. He lost his spirit. An’ now he couldn’t 
play marbles, let alone gol-lof. Nope, Monty was too 
smart. An’ I reckon he was right about brains bein’ 
what wins.” 

The game began. At first Madeline and Dorothy es- 
sayed to direct the endeavors of their respective players. 
But all they said and did only made their team play the 
worse. At the third hole they were far behind and hope- 
lessly bewildered. What with Monty’s borrowed coat, 
with its dazzling effect upon Ambrose, and Link’s oft- 
repeated allusion to Ed’s matrimonial state, and Still- 
well’s vociferated disgust, and the clamoring good in- 
tention and pursuit of the cowboy supporters, and the 
embarrassing presence of the ladies, Ambrose and Ed wore 
through all manner of strange play until it became 
ridiculous. 


200 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


'‘Hey, Link,” came Monty’s voice booming over the 
links, “our esteemed rivals are playin’ shinny.” 

Madeline and Dorothy gave up, presently, when the 
game became a rout, and they sat down with their fol- 
lowers to watch the fun. Whether by hook or crook, 
Ed and Ambrose forged ahead to come close upon Monty 
and Link. Castleton disappeared in a mass of gesticu- 
lating, shouting cowboys. When that compact mass 
disintegrated Castleton came forth rather hurriedly, it 
appeared, to stalk back toward his hostess and friends. 

“Lookl” exclaimed Helen, in delight. “Castleton is 
actually excited. Whatever did they do to him? Oh, 
this is immense!” 

Castleton was excited, indeed, and also somewhat di- 
sheveled. 

“By Jove! that was a rum go,” he said, as he came up. 
“Never saw such blooming golf! I resigned my office as 
umpire.” 

Only upon considerable pressure did he reveal the reason. 

“It was like this, don’t you know. They were all to- 
gether over there, watching each other. Monty Price’s 
ball dropped into a hazard, and he moved it to improve 
the lie. By Jove! they’ve all been doing that. But over 
there the game was waxing hot. Stillwell and his cow- 
boys saw Monty move the ball, and there was a row. 
They appealed to me. I corrected the play, showed the 
rules. Monty agreed he was in the wrong. However, 
when it came to moving his ball back to its former lie in 
the hazard there was more blooming trouble. Monty 
placed the ball to suit him, and then he transfixed me with 
an evil eye. 

“‘Dook,’ he said. I wish the bloody cowboy would 
not call me that. ‘Dook, mebbe this game ain’t as im- 
portant as international politics or some other things re- 
latin’, but there’s some health an’ peace dependin’ on it. 
Savvy? For some space our opponents have been dead 
to honor an’ sportsmanlike conduct. I calculate the game 
depends on my next drive. I’m placin’ my ball as near 


COWBOY GOLF 


201 


to where it was as human eyesight could. You seen where 
it was same as I seen it. You’re the umpire, an’, Dook, 
I take you as a honorable man. Moreover, never in my 
bom days has my word been doubted without sorrow. 
So I’m askin’ you, wasn’t my ball layin’ just about here?’ 

“The bloody little desperado smiled cheerfully, and 
he dropped his right hand down to the butt of his gun. 
By Jove, he did! Then I had to tell a blooming lie!” 

Castleton even caught the tone of Monty’s voice, but 
it was plain that he had not the least conception that 
Monty had been fooling. Madeline and her friends di- 
vined it, however; and, there being no need of reserve, 
they let loose the fountains of mirth. 


202 


XIV 


BANDITS 



HEN Madeline and her party recovered composure 


V V they sat up to watch the finish of the match. It 
came with spectacular suddenness. A sharp yell pealed 
out, and all the cowboys turned attentively in its direc- 
tion. A big black horse had surmounted the rim of the 
mesa and was just breaking into a run. His rider yelled 
sharply to the cowboys. They wheeled to dash toward 
their grazing horses. 

“That’s Stewart. There is something wrong,” said 
Madeline, in alarm. 

Castleton stared. The other men exclaimed uneasily. 
The women sought Madeline’s face with anxious eyes. 

The black got into his stride and bore swiftly down 
upon them. 

“Oh, look at that horse run!” cried Helen. “Look at 
that fellow ride!” 

Helen was not alone in her admiration, for Madeline 
divided her emotions between growing alarm of some 
danger menacing and a thrill and quickening of pulse- 
beat that tingled over her whenever she saw Stewart in 
violent action. No action of his was any longer insig- 
nificant, but violent action meant so much. It might 
mean anything. For one moment she remembered Still- 
well and all his talk about fun, and plots, and tricks to 
amuse her guest. Then she discountenanced the thought. 
Stewart might lend himself to a little fun, but he cared 
too much for a horse to run him at that speed unless 
there was imperious need. That alone sufficed to answer 
Madeline’s questioning curiosity. And her alarm mount- 


BANDITS 


203 


ed to fear not so much for herself as for her guests. But 
what danger could there be? She could think of nothing 
except the guerrillas. 

Whatever threatened, it would be met and checked by 
this man Stewart, who was thundering up on his fleet 
horse; and as he neared her, so that she could see the 
dark gleam of face and eyes, she had a strange feeling 
of trust in her dependence upon him. 

The big black was so close to Madeline and her friends 
that when Stewart pulled him the dust and sand kicked 
up by his pounding hoofs flew in their faces. 

“Oh, Stewart, what is it?” cried Madeline. 

“Guess I scared you, Miss Hammond,” he replied. 
“But I’m pressed for time. There’s a gang of bandits 
hiding on the ranch, most likely in a deserted hut. They 
held up a train near Agua Prieta. Pat Hawe is with the 
posse that’s trailing them, and you know Pat has no use 
for us. I’m all aid it wouldn’t be pleasant for you or 
your guests to meet either the posse or the bandits.” 

“I fancy not,” said Madeline, considerably relieved. 
“We’ll hurry back to the house.” 

They exchanged no more speech at the moment, and 
Madeline’s guests were silent. Perhaps Stewart’s actions 
and looks belied his calm words. His piercing eyes roved 
round the rim of the mesa, and his face was as hard and 
stem as chiseled bronze. 

Monty and Nick came galloping up, each leading sev- 
eral horses by the bridles. Nels appeared behind them 
with Majesty, and he was having trouble with the roan. 
Madeline observed that all the other cowboys had dis- 
appeared. 

One sharp word from Stewart calmed Madeline’s horse ; 
the other horses, however, were frightened and not in- 
clined to stand. The men moimted without trouble, and 
likewise Madeline and Florence. But Edith Wa3me and 
Mrs. Beck, being nervous and almost helpless, were with 
difficulty gotten into the saddle. 

“Beg pardon, but I’m pressed for time,” said Stewart, 


204 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

coolly, as with iron arm he forced Dorothy’s horse almost 
to its knees. Dorothy, who was active and plucky, 
climbed astride; and when Stewart loosed his hold on bit 
and mane the horse doubled up and began to buck. 
Dorothy screamed as she shot into the air. Stewart, as 
quick as the horse, leaped forward and caught Dorothy 
in his arms. She had slipped head downward, and, had 
he not caught her, would have had a serious fall. Stewart, 
handling her as if she were a child, turned her right side 
up to set her upon her feet. Dorothy evidently thought 
only of the spectacle she presented, and made startled 
motions to readjust her riding-habit. It was no time to 
laugh, though Madeline felt as if she wanted to. Be- 
sides, it was impossible to be anything but sober with 
Stewart in violent mood. For he had jumped at Dor- 
othy’s stubborn moimt. All cowboys were masters of 
horses. It was wonderful to see him conquer the vicious 
animal. He was cruel, perhaps, yet it was from neces- 
sity. When, presently, he led the horse back to Dorothy 
she moimted without fiuther trouble. Meanwhile, Nels 
and* Nick had lifted Helen into her saddle. 

“We’ll take the side trail,” said Stewart, shortly, as he 
swung upon the big black. Then he led the way, and 
the other cowboys trotted in +he rear. 

It was only a short distance to the rim of the mesa, 
and when Madeline saw the steep trail, narrow and choked 
with weathered stone, she felt that her guests would cer- 
tainly flinch. 

“That’s a jolly bad course,” observed Castleton. 

The women appeared to be speechless. 

Stewart checked his horse at the deep cut where the 
trail started down. 

“Boys, drop over, and go slow,” he said, dismounting. 
“Flo, you follow. Now, ladies, let your horses loose and 
hold on. Lean forward and hang to the pommel. It 
looks bad. But the horses are used to such trails.” 

Helen followed closely after Florence; Mrs. Beck went 
next, and then Edith Wayne. Dorothy’s horse balked. 


BANDITS 205 ' 

“I*m not so — so frightened/’ said Dorothy. “If only 
he would behave!” 

She began to urge him into the trail, making him rear, 
when Stewart grasped the bit and jerked the horse down. 

“Put your foot in my stirrup,” said Stewart. “We 
can’t waste time.” 

He lifted her upon his horse and started him down 
over the rim. 

“Go on. Miss Hammond. I’ll have to lead this nag 
down. It ’ll save time.” 

Then Madeline attended to the business of getting 
down herself. It was a loose trail. The weathered slopes 
seemed to slide under the feet of the horses. Dust-clouds 
formed; rocks rolled and rattled down ; cactus spikes tore 
at horse and rider. Mrs. Beck broke into laughter, and 
there was a note in it that suggested hysteria. Once 
or twice Dorothy murmured plaintively. Half the time 
Madeline could not distinguish those ahead through the 
yellow dust. It was dry and made her cough. The horses 
snorted. She beared Stewart close behind, starting little 
avalanches that kept rolling on Majesty’s fetlocks. She 
feared his legs might’ be cut or bruised, for some of the 
stones cracked by and went rattling down the slope. At 
length the clouds of dust thinned and Madeline saw the 
others before her ride out upon a level. Soon she was 
down, and Stewart also. 

Here there was a delay, occasioned by Stewart chang- 
ing Dorothy from his horse to her own. This struck 
Madeline as being singular, and made her thoughtful. In 
fact, the alert, quiet manner of all the cowboys was not 
reassuring. As they restuned the ride it was noticeable 
that Nels and Nick were far in advance, Monty stayed 
far in the rear, and Stewart rode with the party. Made- 
line heard Boyd Harvey ask Stewart if lawlessness such 
as he had mentioned was not imusual. Stewart replied 
that, except' for occasional deeds of outlawry such as 
might break out in any isolated section of the country, 
there had been peace and quiet along the border for years. 


2o6 the light of western stars 


It was the Mexican revolution that had revived wild 
times, with all the attendant raids and holdups and gun- 
packing. Madeline knew that they were really being 
escorted home under armed guard. 

When they rounded the head of the mesa, bringing 
into view the ranch-house and the valley, Madeline saw 
dust or smoke hovering over a hut upon the outskirts of 
the Mexican quarters. As the sun had set and the light 
was fading, she could not distinguish which it was. Then 
Stewart set a fast pace for the house. In a few minutes 
the party was in the yard, ready and willing to dismount. 

Stillwell appeared, ostensibly cheerful, too cheerful to 
deceive Madeline. She noted also that a niimber of 
armed cowboys were walking with their horses just below 
the house. 

“Wal, you-all had a nice little run,” Stillwell said, 
speaking generally. “I reckon there wasn’t much need 
of it. Pat Hawe thinks he’s got some outlaws corralled 
on the ranch. Nothin’ at all to be fussed up about. 
Stewart’s that particular he won’t have you meetin’ with 
any rowdies.” 

Many and fervent were the expressions of relief from 
Madeline’s feminine guests as they dismounted and went 
into the house. Madeline lingered behind to speak with 
Stillwell and Stewart. 

“Now, Stillwell, out with it,” she said, briefly. 

The cattleman stared, and then he laughed, evi- 
dently pleased with her keenness. 

“Wal, Miss Majesty, there’s goin’ to be a fight some- 
where, an’ Stewart wanted to get you-all in before it 
come off. He says the valley’s overrun by vaqueros an’ 
guerrillas an’ robbers, an’ Lord knows what else.” 

He stamped off the porch, his huge spurs rattling, and 
started down the path toward the waiting men. 

Stewart stood in his familiar attentive position, erect, 
silent, with a hand on pommel and bridle. 

“Stewart, you are exceedingly — thoughtful of my in- 
terests,” she said, wanting to thank him, and not readily 


BANDITS 


207 

finding words. “I would not know what to do without 
you. Is there danger?’^ 

“I’m not sure. But I want to be on the safe side.” 

She hesitated. It was no longer easy for her to talk 
to him, and she did not know why. 

“May I know the special orders you gave Nels and 
Nick and Monty?” she asked. 

“Who said I gave those boys special orders?” 

“I heard Stillwell tell them so.” 

“Of course I’ll tell you if you insist. But why should 
you worry over something that ’ll likely never happen?” 

“I insist, Stewart,” she replied, quietly. 

“ My orders were that at least one of them must be on 
guard near you day and night — never to be out of hearing 
of your voice.” 

“ I thought as much. But why Nels or Monty or Nick? 
That seems rather hard on them. For that matter, why 
put any one to keep guard over me? Do you not trust 
any other of my cowboys?” 

“I’d trust their honesty, but not their ability.” 

“Ability? Of what nature?” 

“With guns.” 

“Stewart!” she exclaimed. 

“Miss Hammond, you have been having such a good 
time entertaining your guests that you forget. I’m 
glad of that. I wish you had not questioned me.” 

“Forget what?” 

“Don Carlos and his guerrillas.” 

“Indeed I have not forgotten. Stewart, you still think 
Don Carlos tried to make off with me — may try it 
again?” 

“I don’t think. I know.” 

“And besides all your other duties you have shared the 
watch with these three cowboys?” 

“Yes.” 

“It has been going on without my knowledge?” 

“Yes.” 

“Since when?” 


208 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


“Since I brought you down from the mountains last 
month.” 

“How long is it to continue?” 

“That’s hard to say. Till the revolution is over, any- 
how.” 

She mused a moment, looking away to the west, where 
the great void was filling with red haze. She believed 
implicitly in him, and the menace hovering near her fell 
like a shadow upon her present happiness. 

“What must I do?” she asked. 

“I think you ought to send your friends back East — 
and go with them, until this guerrilla war is over.” 

“Why, Stewart, they would be broken-hearted, and so 
would I.” 

He had no reply for that. 

“If I do not take your advice it will be the first time 
since I have come to look to you for so much,” she went 
on. “Cannot you suggest something else? My friends 
are having such a splendid visit. Helen is getting well. 
Oh, I should be sorry to see them go before they want 
to.” 

“We might take them up into the mountains and camp 
out for a while,” he said, presently. “ I know a wild place 
up among the crags. It’§ a hard climb, but worth the 
work. I never saw a more beautiful spot. Fine water, 
and it will be cool. Pretty soon it ’ll be too hot here for 
your party to go out-of-doors.” 

, “You mean to hide me away among the crags and 
clouds?” replied Madeline, with a laugh. 

“Well, it ’d amount to that. Your friends need not 
know. Perhaps in a few weeks this spell of trouble on 
the border will be over till fall.” 

“You say it’s a hard climb up to this place?” 

“It stirely is. Your friends will get the real thing if 
they make that trip.” 

“That suits me. Helen especially wants something 
to happen. And they are all crazy for excitement.” 

“They’d get it up there. Bad trails, canons to head. 


BANDITS 


20q 


steep climbs, wind-storms, thunder and lightning, rain, 
mountain-lions and wildcats.” 

“Very well, I am decided. Stewart, of course you will 
take charge? I don’t believe I — Stewart, isn’t there 
something more you could tell me — why you think, why 
you know my own personal liberty is in peril?” 

“Yes. But do not ask me what it is. If I hadn’t been . 
a rebel soldier I would never have known.” 

“ If you had not been a rebel soldier, where would Made- 
line Hammond be now?” she asked, earnestly. 

He made no reply. 

“Stewart,” she continued, with warm impulse, “you 
once mentioned a debt you owed me — ” And seeing his 
dark face pale, she wavered, then went on. “It is paid.” 

“No, no,” he answered, huskily. 

“Yes. I will not have it otherwise. * 

“No. That never can be paid.” 

Madeline held out her hand. 

“It is paid, I tell you,” she repeated 

Suddenly he drew back from the outstretched white 
hand that seemed to fascinate him. 

“I’d kill a man to touch your hand. But I won’t touch 
it on the terms you offer.” 

His unexpected passion disconcerted ner. 

“Stewart, no man ever before refused to shake hands 
.with me, for any reason. It — it is scarcely flattering,” she 
said, with a little laugh. “Why won’t you ? Because you 
think I offer it as mistress to servant — rancher to cowboy?” 

“No.” 

“Then why? The debt you owed me is paid. I cancel 
t. So why not shake hands upon it, as men do?” 

“I won’t. That’s all.” 

“I fear you are ungracious, whatever your reason,” she 
replied. “Still, I may offer it again some day. Good 
night.” 

He said good night and turned. Madeline wonderingly 
watched him go down the path with his hand on the black 
horse’s neck. 


210 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


She went in to rest a little before dressing for dinner, 
and, being fatigued from the day’s riding and excitement, 
she fell asleep. When she awoke it was twilight. She 
wondered why her Mexican maid had not come to her, 
and she rang the bell. The maid did not put in an' ap- 
pearance, nor was there any answer to the ring. The 
house seemed unusually quiet. It was a brooding silence, 
which presently broke to the sound of footsteps on the 
porch. Madeline recognized Stillwell’s tread, though it 
appeared to be light for him. Then she heard him call 
softly in at the open door of her office. The suggestion 
of caution in his voice suited the strangeness of his walk. 
With a boding sense of trouble she hurried through the 
rooms. He was standing outside her office door. 

‘‘Stillwell!” she exclaimed. 

“Anybody with vou?” he asked, in a low tone. 

“No.” 

“Please come out on the porch,” he added. 

She complied, and, once out, was enabled to see him. 
His grave face, paler than she had ever beheld it, caused 
her to stretch an appealing hand toward him. Stillwell 
intercepted it and held it in his own. 

“Miss Majesty, I’m amazin’ sorry to tell worrisome 
news.” He spoke almost in a whisper, cautiously looked 
about him, and seemed both hurried and mysterious. 
“If you’d heerd Stewart cuss you’d sure know how we 
hate to hev to tell you this. But it can’t be avoided. 
The fact is we’re in a bad fix. If your guests ain’t scared 
out of their skins it ’ll be owin’ to your nerve an’ how you 
carry out Stewart’s orders.” 

“You can rely upon me,” replied Madeline, firmly, 
though she trembled. 

“Wal, what we’re up against is this: that gang of ban- 
dits Pat Hawe was chasin’ — they’re hidin’ in the house!” 

“In the house?” echoed Madeline, aghast. 

“Miss Majesty, it’s the amazin’ truth, an’ shamed in- 
deed am I to admit it. Stewart — why, he’s wild with 
rage to think it could hev happened. You see, it couldn’t 


BANDITS 


2II 


hev happened if I hedn’t sloped the boys off to the gol-lof- 
links, an’ if Stewart hedn’t rid out on the mesa after us. 
It’s my fault. I’ve hed too much femininity around fer 
my old haid. Gene cussed me — he cussed me sure scan- 
dalous. But now we’ve got to face it — to figger.” 

“Do you mean that a gang of hunted outlaws — ban- 
dits — ^have actually taken refuge somewhere in my house?” 
demanded Madeline. 

“I sure do. Seems powerful strange to me why you 
didn’t find somethin’ was wrong, seein’ all your servants 
hev sloped.” 

“Gone? Ah, I missed my maid! I wondered why no 
lights were lit. Where did my servants go?” 

“Down to the Mexican quarters, an’ scared half to 
death. Now listen. When Stewart left you an hour or 
so ago he follered me direct to where me an’ the boys 
was tryin’ to keep Pat Hawe from tearin’ the ranch to 
pieces. At that we was helpin’ Pat all we could to find 
them bandits. But when Stewart got there he made a 
difference. Pat was nasty before, but seein’ Stewart 
made him wuss. I reckon Gene to Pat is the same as red 
to a Greaser bull. An5rway, when the sheriff set fire to 
an old adobe hut Stewart called him an’ called him hard. 
Pat Hawe hed six fellers with him, an’ from all appear- 
ances bandit-huntin’ was some fiesta. There was a row, 
an’ it looked bad fer a little. - But Gene was cool, an’ he 
controlled the boys. Theti Pat an’ his tough de-pooties 
went on huntin’. That huntin’. Miss Majesty, petered 
out into what was only a farce. I reckon Pat could hev 
kept on foolin’ me an’ the boys, but as soon as Stewart 
showed up on the scene — wal, either Pat got to blunderin’ 
or else we-all shed our blinders. Anyway, the facts stood 
plain. Pat Hawe wasn’t lookin’ hard fer any bandits; 
he wasn’t daid set huntin’ anythin’, unless it was trouble 
fer Stewart. Finally, when Pat’s men made fer our store- 
house, where we keep ammunition, grub, liquors, an’ sich, 
then Gene called a halt. An’ he ordered Pat Hawe off 
the ranch. It was hyar Hawe an’ Stewart locked horns'. 


212 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


An’ hyar the truth come out. There was a gang of ban- 
dits hid somewheres, an’ at fust Pat Hawe hed been 
powerful active an’ earnest in his huntin’. But sudden- 
like he’d fetched a pecooliar change of heart. He had 
been some flustered with Stewart’s eyes a-pryin’ into his 
moves, an’ then, mebbe to hide somethin’, mebbe jest 
nat’rul, he got mad. He hollered law. He pulled down 
off the shelf his old stock grudge on Stewart, accusin' him 
over again of that Greaser miu-der last fall. Stewart 
made him look like a fool — showed him up as bein’ scared 
of the bandits or hevin’ some reason fer slopin’ off the 
trail. Anyway, the row started all right, an’ but fer Nels 
it might hev amounted to a fight. In the thick of it, 
when Stewart was drivin’ Pat an’ his crowd off the place, 
one of them de-pooties lost his head an’ went fer his gun. 
Nels throwed his gun an’ crippled the feller’s arm. Monty 
jimiped then an’ throwed two forty-fives, an’ fer a second 
or so it looked ticklish. But the bandit-hunters crawled, 
an’ then lit out.” 

Stillwell paused in the rapid delivery of his narrative; 
he still retained Madeline’s hand, as if by that he might 
comfort her. 

“After Pat left we put our haids together,” began the 
old cattleman, with a long respiration. “We rounded 
up a lad who hed seen a dozen or so fellers — he wouldn’t 
say they was Greasers — breakin’ through the shrubbery 
to the back of the house. That was while Stewart was 
ridin’ out to the mesa. Then this lad seen your servants 
all nmnin’ down the hill toward the village. Now, heah’s 
the way Gene figgers. There sure was some deviltry 
down along the railroad, an’ Pat Hawe trailed bandits 
up to the ranch. He hunts hard an’ then all to onct he 
quits. Stewart says Pat Hawe wasn’t scared, but he dis- 
covered signs or somethin’, or got wind in some strange 
way that there was in the gang of bandits some fellers 
he didn’t want to ketch. Sahef Then Gene, quicker ’n 
a flash, springs his plan on me. He’d go down to Padre 
Marcos an’ hev him help to find out all possible from your 


BANDITS 


213 


Mexican servants. I was to hurry up hyar an’ tell you — 
give you orders, Miss Majesty. Ain’t that amazin’ 
strange? Wal, you’re to assemble all your guests in the 
kitchen. Make a grand bluff an’ pretend, as your help 
has left, that it ’ll be great fun fer your guests to cook 
dinner. The kitchen is the safest room in the house. 
While you’re joshin’ your party along, makin’ a kind of 
picnic out of it, I’ll place cowboys in the long corridor, 
an’ also outside in the comer where the kitchen joins on 
to the main house. It’s pretty sure the bandits think no 
one’s wise to where they’re hid. Stewart says they’re in 
that end room where the alfalfa is, an’ they’ll slope in the 
night. Of course, with me an’ the boys watchin’, you-all 
will be safe to go to bed. An’ we’re to rouse your guests 
early before daylight, to hit the trail up into the moun- 
tains. Tell them to pack outfits before goin’ to bed. Say 
as your servants hev sloped, you might as well go campin’ 
with the cowboys. That’s all. If we hev any luck your 
friends ’ll never know they’ve been sittin’ on a powder- 
mine.” 

“Stillwell, do you advise that trip up into the moun- 
tains?” asked Madeline. 

“I reckon I do, considerin’ everythin’. Now, Miss 
Majesty, I’ve used up a lot of time explainin’. You’ll 
sure keep your nerve?” 

“Yes,” Madeline replied, and was surprised at herself. 

“Better tell Florence. She’ll be a power of comfort 
to you. I’m goin’ now to fetch up the boys.” 

Instead of returning to her room Madeline went 
through the office into the long corridor. It was almost 
as dark as night. She fancied she saw a slow-gliding 
figure darker than the surrounding gloom; and she en- 
tered upon the fulfilment of her part of the plan in some- 
thing like trepidation. Her footsteps were noiseless. 
Finding the door to the kitchen, and going in, she struck 
lights. Upon passing out again she made certain she 
discerned a dark shape, now motionless, crouching along 
the wall. But she mistmsted her vivid imagination. It 


214 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

took all her boldness to enable her unconcernedly and 
naturally to strike the corridor light. Then she went on 
through her own rooms and thence into the patio. 

Her guests laughingly and gladly entered into the spirit 
of the occasion. Madeline fancied her deceit must have 
been perfect, seeing that it deceived even Florence. They 
trooped merrily into the kitchen. Madeline, delaying 
at the door, took a sharp but unobtrusive glance down 
the great, bamlike hall. She saw nothing but blank dark 
space. Suddenly from one side, not a rod distant, pro- 
truded a pale, gleaming face breaking the even blackness. 
Instantly it flashed back out of sight. Yet that time was 
long enough for Madeline to see a pair of glittering eyes, 
and to recognize them as Don Carlos’s. 

Without betra3dng either hurry or alarm, she closed the 
door. It had a heavy bolt which she slowly, noiselessly 
shot. Then the cold amaze that had all but stunned her 
into inaction throbbed into wrath. How dared that 
Mexican steal into her home ! What did he mean? Was 
he one of the bandits supposed to be hidden in her house? 
She was thinking herself into greater anger and excite- 
ment, and probably would have betrayed herself had not 
Florence, who had evidently seen her bolt the door and 
now read her thoughts, come toward her with a bright, 
intent, questioning look. Madeline caught herself in 
time. 

Thereupon she gave each of her guests a duty to per- 
form. Leading Florence into the pantry, she unburdened 
herself of the secret in one brief whisper. Florence’s reply 
was to point out of the little open window, passing which 
was a file of stealthily moving cowboys. Then Madeline 
lost both anger and fear, retaining only the glow of 
excitement. 

Madeline could be gay, and she initiated the abandon- 
ment of dignity by calling Castleton into the pantry, and, 
while interesting him in some pretext or other, imprinting 
the outlines of her flour-covered hands upon the back 
of his black coat. Castleton innocently returned to the 


BANDITS 


215 


kitchen to be greeted with a roar. That surprising act 
of the hostess set the pace, and there followed a merry, 
noisy time. Everybody helped. The miscellaneous col- 
lection of dishes so confusingly opntrived made up a 
dinner which they all heartily enjoyed. Madeline en- 
joyed it herself, even with the feeling of a sword hanging 
suspended over her. 

The hour was late when she rose from the table and 
told her guests to go to their rooms, don their riding- 
clothes, pack what they needed for the long and advent- 
urous camping trip that she hoped would be the climax 
of their Western experience, and to snatch a little sleep 
before the cowboys roused them for the early start. 

Madeline went immediately to her room, and was get- 
ting out her camping apparel when a knock interrupted 
her. She thought Florence had come to help her pack. 
But this knock was upon the door opening out in the porch. 
It was repeated. 

“Who’s there?” she questioned. 

“Stewart,”, came the reply. 

She opened the door. He stood on the threshold. 
Beyond him, indistinct in the gloom, were several cow- 
boys. 

“May I speak to you?” he asked. 

“Certainly.” She hesitated a moment, then asked him 
in and closed the door. “Is — is everything all right?” 

“No. These bandits stick to cover pretty close. They 
must have found out we’re on the watch. But I’m sure 
we’ll get you and your friends away before anything starts. 
I wanted to tell you that I’ve talked with your servants. 
They were just scared. They’ll come back to-morrow, 
soon as Bill gets rid of this gang. You need not worry 
about them or your property.” 

“Do you have any idea who is hiding in the house?” 

“I was worried some at first. Pat Hawe acted queer. 
I imagined he’d discovered he was trailing bandits who 
might turn out to be his smuggling guerrilla cronies. But 
talking with your servants, finding a bunch of horses 


2i6 the light of western stars 


hidden down in the mesquite behind the pond — several 
things have changed my mind. My idea is that a cow- 
ardly handful of riffraff outcasts from the border have 
hidden in your house, more by accident than design. 
We’ll let them go — get rid of them without even a shot. 
If I didn’t think so — well, I’d be considerably worried. 
It would make a different state of affairs.” 

“Stewart, you are wrong,” she said. 

He started, but his reply did not follow swiftly. The 
expression of his eyes altered. Presently he spoke: 

“How so?” 

“I saw one of these bandits. I distinctly recognized 
him.” 

One long step brought him close to her. 

“Who was he?” demanded Stewart. 

“Don Carlos.” 

He muttered low and deep, then said, “Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely. I saw his figure twice in the hall, then 
his face in the light. I could never mistake his eyes.” 

“Did he know you saw him?” 

“I am not positive, but I think so. Oh, he must have 
known! I was standing fuU in the light. I had entered 
the door, then purposely stepped out. His face showed 
from around a comer, and swiftly flashed out of sight.” 

Madeline was tremblingly conscious that Stewart under- 
went a transformation. She saw as well as felt the leap- 
ing passion that changed him. 

“Call your friends — get them in here!” he ordered, 
tersely, and wheeled toward the door. 

“Stewart, wait!” she said. 

He turned. His white face, his burning eyes, his pres- 
ence now charged with definite, fearful meaning, influenced 
her strangely, weakened her. 

“What will you do?” she asked. 

“That needn’t concern you. Get your party in here. 
Bar the windows and lock the doors. You’ll be safe.” 

‘ ‘ Stewart ! Tell me what you intend to do. ” 

“I won’t tell you,” he replied, and turned away again. 


BANDITS 


2lf 

“But I will know,” she said. With a hand on his arm 
she detained him. She saw how he halted — felt the shock 
in him as she touched him. “ Oh, I do know. You mean 
to fight!” 

“Well, Miss Hammond, isn’t it about time?” he asked. 
Evidently he overcame a violent passion for instant action. 
There was weariness, dignity, even reproof in his question. 
“The fact of that Mexican’s presence here in your house 
ought to prove to you the nature of the case. These 
vaqmros, these guerrillas, have found out you won’t stand 
for any fighting on the part of your men. Don Carlos is 
a sneak, a coward, yet he’s not afraid to hide in your own 
house. He has learned you won’t let yotu* cowboys hurt 
anybody. He’s taking advantage of it. He’ll rob, bum, 
and make off with you. He’ll murder, too, if it falls his 
way. These Greasers use knives in the dark. So I ask — 
isn’t it about time we stop him?” 

“Stewart, I forbid you to fight, unless in self-defense. 
I forbid you.” 

“What I mean to do is self-defense. Haven’t I tried 
to explain to you that just now we’ve wild times along 
this stretch of border? Must I tell you again that Don 
Carlos is hand and glove with the revolution? The rebels 
are crazy to stir up the United States. You are a woman 
of ' prominence. Don Carlos would make off with you. 
If he got you, what little matter to cross the border with 
you! Well, where would the hue and cry go? Through 
the troops along the border! To New York! To Wash- 
ington! Why, it would mean what the rebels are working 
for — United States intervention. In other words, war!” 

“Oh, surely you exaggerate!” she cried. 

“ Maybe so. But I’m beginning to see the Don’s game. 
And, Miss Hammond, I — It’s awful for me to think what 
you’d suffer if Don Carlos got you over the line. I know 
these low-caste Mexicans. I’ve been among the peons — 
the slaves.” 

“Stewart, don’t let Don Carlos get me,” replied Made- 
line, in sweet directness. 


218 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


She saw him shake, saw his throat swell as he swallowetl 
hard, saw the hard fierceness return to his face. 

“I won’t. That’s why I’m going after him.” 

“But I forbade you to start a fight deliberately.” 

“Then I’ll go ahead and start one without your per- 
mission,” he replied shortly, and again he wheeled. 

This time, when Madeline caught his arm she held to 
it, even after he stopped, 

“No,” she said, imperiously. 

He shook off her hand and strode forward. 

“Please don’t go!” she called, beseechingly. But he 
kept on. “Stewart!” « 

She ran ahead of him, intercepted him, faced him with 
her back against the door. He swept out a long arm as 
if to brush her aside. But it wavered and fell. Haggard, 
troubled, with working face, he stood before her. 

“It’s for your sake,” he expostulated. 

“If it is for my sake, then do what pleases me.” 

“These guerrillas will knife somebody. They’ll bum 
the house. They’ll make off with you. They’ll do some- 
thing bad unless we stop them.” 

“Let us risk all that,” she importuned. 

“But it’s a terrible risk, and it oughtn’t be mn,” he 
exclaimed, passionately. “I know best here. Stillwell 
upholds me. Let me out. Miss Hammond. I’m going 
to take the boys and go after these guerrillas.” 

“No!” 

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Stewart. “Why not let 
me go? It’s the thing to do. I’m sorry to distress you 
and your guests. Why not put an end to Don Carlos’s 
badgering? Is it because you’re afraid a rumpus will 
spoil your friends’ visit?” 

“It isn’t — not this time.” 

“Then it’s the idea of a little shooting at these Greasers ?” 

“No.” 

“You’re sick to think of a little Greaser blood staining 
the halls of your home?” 

“No!” 


BANDITS 


219 

“Well, then, why keep me from doing what I know is 
best?” 

“Stewart, I — I — ” she faltered, in growing agitation. 
“Fm frightened — confused. All this is too — too much 
for me. I’m not a coward. If you have to fight you’ll 
see I’m not a coward. But your way seems so reckless — 
that hall is so dark — the guerrillas would shoot from be- 
hind doors. You’re so wild, so daring, you’d rush right 
into peril. Is that necessary ? I think — I mean — I don’t 
know just why I feel so — so about you doing it. But I 
believe it’s because I’m afraid you — you might be hurt.” 

“You’re afraid I — I might be hurt?” he echoed, won- 
deringly, the hard whiteness of his face warming, flushing, 
glowing. 

“Yes.” 

The single word, with all it might mean, with all it 
might not mean, softened him as if by magic, made him 
gentle, amazed, shy as a boy, stifling under a torrent of 
emotions. 

Madeline thought she had persuaded him — worked her 
will with him. Then another of his startlingly sudden 
moves told her that she had reckoned too quickly. This 
move was to put her firmly aside so he could pass; and 
Madeline, seeing he would not hesitate to lift her out of 
the way, surrendered the door. He turned on the thresh- 
old. His face was still working, but the flame-pointed 
gleam of his eyes indicated the return of that cowboy 
ruthlessness. 

“I’m going to drive Don Carlos and his gang out of the 
house,” declared Stewart. “I think I may promise you 
to do it without a fight. But if it takes a fight, off he 
goes!” 


220 


XV 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


5 Stewart departed from one door Florence knocked 



upon another; and Madeline, far shaken out of her 
usual serenity, admitted the cool Western girl with more 
than gladness. Just to have her near helped Madeline 
to get back her balance. She was conscious of Florence’s 
sharp scrutiny, then of a sweet, deliberate change of 
manner. Florence might have been burning with curios- 
ity to know more about the bandits hidden in the house, 
the plans of the cowboys, the reason for Madeline’s sup- 
pressed emotion; but instead of asking Madeline ques- 
tions she introduced the important subject of what to 
take on the camping trip. For an hour they discussed 
the need of this and that article, selected those things most 
needful, and then packed them in Madeline’s duffle- 


bags. 


That done, they decided to lie down, fully dressed as 
they were in riding-costume, and sleep, or at least rest, the 
little remaining time left before the call to saddle. Made- 
line turned out the light and, peeping through her win- 
dow, saw dark forms standing sentinel-like in the gloom. 
When she lay down she heard soft steps on the path. 
This fidelity to her swelled her heart, while the need of it 
presaged that fearful something which, since Stewart’s 
passionate appeal to her, haunted her as inevitable. 

Madeline did not expect to sleep, yet she did sleep, and 
it seemed to have been only a moment until Florence 
called her. She followed Florence outside. It was the 
■dark hour before dawn. She could discern saddled horses 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


22 L 


being held by cowboys. There was an air of hurry and 
mystery about the departure. Helen, who came tip- 
toeing out with Madeline’s other guests, whispered that 
it was like an escape. She was delighted. The others 
.were amused. To Madeline it was indeed an escape. 

In the darkness Madeline could not see how many 
escorts her party was to have. She heard low voices, the 
champing of bits and thumping of hoofs, and she recog- 
nized Stewart when he led up Majesty for her to mount. 
Then came a pattering of soft feet and the whining of 
dogs. Cold noses touched her hands, and she saw the 
long, gray, shaggy shapes of her pack of Russian wolf- 
hounds. That Stewart meant to let them go with her 
was indicative of how he studied her pleasure. She loved 
to be out with the hounds and her horse. 

Stewart led Majesty out into the darkness past a line 
of mounted horses. 

‘‘Guess we’re ready,” he said. “I’ll make the count.” 
He went back along the line, and on the return Madeline 
heard him say several times, “Now, everybody ride close 
to the horse in front, and keep quiet till daylight.” Then 
the snorting and potmding of the big black horse in front 
of her told Madeline that Stewart had moimted. 

“All right, we’re off,” he called. 

Madeline lifted Majesty’s bridle and let the roan go. 
There was a crack and crunch of gravel, fire struck from 
stone, a low whinny, a snort, and then steady, short, clip- 
clop of iron hoofs on hard ground. Madeline could just 
discern Stewart and his black outlined in shadowy gray 
before her. Yet they were almost within touching dis- 
tance. Once or twice one of the huge stag-hounds leaped 
up at her and whined joyously. A thick belt of darkness 
lay low, and seemed to thin out above to a gray fog, 
through which a few wan stars showed. It was altogether 
an unusual departure from the ranch; and Madeline, 
always susceptible even to ordinary incident that prom- 
ised well, now found herself thrillingly sensitive to the 
soft beat of hoofs, the feel of cool, moist air, the dim sight 


222 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


of Stewart’s dark figure. The caution, the early start 
before dawn, the enforced silence — these lent the occasion 
all that was needful to make it stirring. 

Majesty plunged into a gully, where sand and rough 
going made Madeline stop romancing to attend to riding. 
In the darkness Stewart was not so easy to keep close to 
even on smooth trails, and now she had to be watchfully 
attentive to do it. Then followed a long march through 
dragging sand. Meantime the blackness gradually 
changed to gray. At length Majesty climbed out of the 
wash, and once more his iron shoes rang on stone. He be- 
gan to climb. The figure of Stewart and his horse loomed 
more distinctly in Madeline’s sight. Bending over, she 
tried to see the trail, but could not. She wondered how 
Stewart could follow a trail in the dark. His eyes must 
be as piercing as they sometimes looked. Over her shoul- 
der Madeline could not see the horse behind hei, but she 
heard him. 

As Majesty climbed steadily Madeline saw the gray 
darkness grow opaque, change and lighten, lose its sub- 
stance, and yield the grotesque shapes of yucca and 
ocotillo. Dawn was about to break. Madeline imagined 
she was facing east, still she saw no brightening of slcy. 
All at once, to her surprise, Stewart and his powerful horse 
stood clear in her sight. She saw the characteristic rock 
and cactus and brush that covered the foothills. The 
trail was old and seldom used, and it zigzagged and turned 
and twisted. Looking back, she saw the short, squat 
figure of Monty Price humped over his saddle. Monty’s 
face was hidden under his sombrero. Behind him rode 
Dorothy Coombs, and next loomed up the lofty form of 
Nick Steele. Madeline and the members of her party 
were riding between cowboy escorts. 

Bright daylight came, and Madeline saw the trail was 
leading up through foothills. It led in a round-about way 
through shallow gullies full of stone and brush washed 
down by floods. At every turn now Madeline expected 
to come upon water and the waiting pack-train. But 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


223 


time passed, and miles of climbing, and no water or horses 
were met. Expectation in Madeline gave place to desire; 
she was hungry. 

Presently Stewart’s horse went splashing into a shallow 
pool. Beyond that damp places in the sand showed here 
and there, and again more water in rocky pockets. Stewart 
kept on. It was eight o’clock by Madeline’s watch when, 
upon turning into a wide hollow, she saw horses grazing 
on spare grass, a great pile of canvas-covered bundles, 
and a fire round which cowboys and two Mexican women 
were busy. 

Madeline sat her horse and reviewed her followers as 
they rode up single file. Her guests were in merry mood, 
and they all talked at once. 

“Breakfast — and rustle,” called out Stewart, without 
ceremony. 

“No need to tell me to rustle,” said Helen. “I am 
simply ravenous. This air makes me hungry.” 

For that matter, Madeline observed Helen did not show 
any marked contrast to the others. The hurry order, 
however, did not interfere with the meal being somewhat 
in the nature of a picnic. While they ate and talked and 
laughed the cowboys were packing horses and burros 
and throwing the diamond-hitch, a procedure so interest- 
ing to Castleton that he got up with coffee-cup in hand 
and tramped from one place to another. 

“Heard of that diamond-hitch-up,” he observed to a 
cowboy. “Bally nice little job!” 

As soon as the pack-train was in readiness Stewart 
started it off in the lead to break trail. A heavy growth 
of shrub interspersed with rock and cactus covered 
the slopes; and now all the trail appeared to be up- 
hill. It was not a question of comfort for Madeline and 
her party, for comfort was impossible; it was a matter 
of making the travel possible for him. Florence wore 
corduroy breeches and high-top boots, and the advantage 
of this masculine garb was at once in evidence. The 
riding-habits of the other ladies suffered considerably from 


224 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

the sharp spikes. It took all Madeline’s watchftilness to 
save her horse’s legs, to pick the best bits of open ground, 
to make cut-offs from the trail, and to protect herself 
from outreaching thorny branches, so that the time sped 
by without her knowing it. The pack-train forged ahead, 
and the trailing couples grew farther apart. At noon they 
got out of the foothills to face the real ascent of the 
mountains. The sun beat down hot. There was little 
breeze, and the dust rose thick and hung in a pall. The 
view was restricted, and what scenery lay open to the 
eye was dreary and drab, a barren monotony of slow- 
mounting slopes ridged by rocky canons. 

Once Stewart waited for Madeline, and as she came up 
he said: 

“We’re going to have a storm.’’ 

“That will be a relief. It’s so hot and dusty,” replied 
Madeline. 

“Shall I call a halt and make camp?” 

“Here? Oh no! What do you think best?” 

“Well, if we have a good healthy thunder-storm it will 
be something new for your friends. I think we’d be wise 
to keep on the go. There’s no place to make a good camp. 
The wind would blow us off this slope if the rain didn’t 
wash us off. It ’ll take all-day travel to reach a good 
camp-site, and I don’t promise that. We’re making slow 
time. If it rains, let it rain. The pack outfit is well 
covered. We will have to get wet.” 

“Surely,” replied Madeline; and she smiled at his in- 
ference. She knew what a storm was in that country, 
and her guests had yet to experience one. “If it rains, 
let it rain.” 

Stewart rode on, and Madeline followed. Up the slope 
toiled and nodded the pack-animals, the little burros going 
easily where the horses labored. Their packs, like the 
humps of camels, bobbed from side to side. Stones rat- 
tled down; the heat-waves wavered black; the dust 
puffed up and sailed. The sky was a pale blue, like heated 
steel, except where dark clouds peeped over the mountain 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


225 


crests. A heavy, sultry atmosphere made breathing dif- 
ficult. Down the slope the trailing party stretched out 
in twos and threes, and it was easy to distinguish the 
weary riders. 

Half a mile farther up Madeline could see over the foot- 
hills to the north and west and a little south, and she for- 
got the heat and weariness and discomfort for her guests 
in wide, unlimited prospects of sun-scorched earth. She 
marked the gray valley and the black mountains and the 
wide, red gateway of the desert, and the dim, shadowy 
peaks, blue as the sky they pierced. She was sorry when 
the bleak, gnarled cedar-trees shut off her view. 

Then there came a respite from the steep climb, and 
the way led in a winding course through a matted, storm- 
wrenched forest of stunted trees. Even up to this eleva- 
tion the desert reached with its gaunt hand. The clouds 
overspreading the sky, hiding the sun, made a welcome 
change. The pack-train rested, and Stewart and Made- 
line waited for the party to come up. Here he briefly 
explained to her that Don Carlos and his bandits had left 
the ranch some time in the night. Thunder rumbled in 
the distance, and a faint wind rustled the scant foliage 
of the cedars. The air grew oppressive; the horses 
panted. 

“Sure it ’ll be a hummer,” said Stewart. “The first 
storm almost always is bad. I can feel it in the air.” 

The air, indeed, seemed to be charged with a heavy 
force that was waiting to be liberated. 

One by one the couples mounted to the cedar forest, 
and the feminine contingent declaimed eloquently for 
rest. But there was to be no permanent rest until night 
and then that depended upon reaching the crags. The 
pack-train wagged onward, and Stewart fell in behind. 
The storm-center gathered slowly around the peaks; low 
rumble and bowl of thunder increased in frequence; 
slowly the light shaded as smoky clouds rolled up; the 
air grew sultrier, and the exasperating breeze puffed a 
few times and then failed. 


226 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


An hour later the party had climbed high and was 
rounding the side of a great bare ridge that long had hid- 
den the crags. The last burro of the pack-train plodded 
over the ridge out of Madeline’s sight. She looked back- 
ward down the slope, amused to see her guests change 
wearily from side to side in their saddles. Far below lay 
the cedar flat and the foothills. Far to the west the sky 
was still clear, with shafts of sunlight shooting down from 
behind the encroaching clouds. 

Stewart reached the summit of the ridge and, though 
only a few rods ahead, he waved to her, sweeping his hand 
round to what he saw beyond. It was an impressive 
gesture, and Madeline, never having climbed as high as 
this, anticipated much. 

Majesty surmounted the last few steps and, snorting, 
halted beside Stewart’s black. To Madeline the scene 
was as if the world had changed. The ridge was a 
mountain-top. It dropped before her into a black, stone- 
ridged, shrub-patched, many-canoned gulf. Eastward, 
beyond the gulf, round, bare mountain-heads loomed up. 
Upward, on the right, led giant steps of cliff and bench and 
weathered slope to the flr-bordered and pine-fringed crags 
standing dark and bare against the stormy sky. Massed 
inky clouds were piling across the peaks, obscuring the 
highest ones. A fork of white lightning flashed, and, like 
the booming of an avalanche, thunder followed. 

That bold world of broken rock under the slow muster- 
ing of storm-clouds was a grim, awe-inspiring spectacle. 
It had beauty, but beauty of the sublime and majestic 
kind. The fierce desert had reached up to meet the 
magnetic heights where heat and wind and frost and 
lightning and flood contended in everlasting strife. And 
before their onslaught this mighty upflung world of rug- 
ged stone was crumbling, splitting, wearing to ruin. 

Madeline glanced at Stewart. He had forgotten her 
presence. Immovable as stone, he sat his horse, dark- 
faced, dark-eyed, and, like an Indian unconscious of 
thought, he watched and watched. To see him thus, to 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


227 


divine the strange affinity between tne soul of this man, 
become primitive, and the savage environment that had 
developed him, were powerful helps to Madeline Ham- 
mond in her strange desire to understand his nature. 

A cracking of iron-shod hoofs behind her broke the spelL 
Monty had reached the summit. 

‘‘Gene, what it won’t all be doin’ in a minnut Moses 
hisself couldn’t tell,” observed Monty. 

Then Dorothy climbed to his side and looked. 

“Oh, isn’t it just perfectly lovely!” she exclaimed. 
“But I wish it wouldn’t storm. We’ll all get wet.” 

Once more Stewart faced the ascent, keeping to the 
slow heave of the ridge as it rose southward toward the 
looming spires of rock. Soon he was off smooth ground, 
and Madeline, some rods behind him, looked back with 
concern at her friends. Here the real toil, the real climb 
began, and a mountain storm was about to burst in all 
its fury. 

The slope that Stewart entered upon was a magnificent 
monument to the ruined crags above. It was a southerly 
slope, and therefore semi-arid, covered with cercocarpus 
and yucca and some shrub that Madeline believed was 
manzanita. Every foot of the trail seemed to slide under 
Majesty. What hard ground there was could not be 
traveled upon, owing to the spiny covering or masses of 
shattered rocks. Gullies lined the slope. 

Then the sky grew blacker; the slow-gathering clouds 
appeared to be suddenly agitated; they piled and rolled 
and mushroomed and obscured the crags. The air moved 
heavily and seemed to be laden with sulphurous smoke, 
and sharp lightning flashes began to play. A distant roar 
of wind could be heard between the peals of thunder. 

Stewart waited for Madeline under the lee of a shelv- 
ing cliff, where the cowboys had halted the pack-train. 
Majesty was sensitive to the flashes of lightning. Made- 
line patted his neck and softly called to him. The weary 
burros nodded; the Mexican women covered their heads 
with their mantles. Stewart untied the slicker at the 


228 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

back of Madeline’s saddle and helped her on with it. 
Then he put on his own. The other cowboys followed 
suit. Presently Madeline saw Monty and Dorothy round- 
ing the cliff, and hoped the others would come soon. 

A blue-white, knotted rope of lightning burned down 
out of the clouds, and instantly a thunder-clap crashed, 
seeming to shake the foundations of the earth. Then it 
rolled, as if banging from cloud to cloud, and boomed 
along the peaks, and reverberated from deep to low, at 
last to rumble away into silence. Madeline felt the elec- 
tricity in Majesty’s mane, and it seemed to tingle through 
her nerves. The air had a weird, bright cast. The 
ponderous clouds swallowed more and more of the eastern 
domes. This moment of the breaking of the storm, with 
the strange growing roar of wind, like a moaning monster, 
was pregnant with a heart-disturbing emotion for Made- 
line Hammond. Glorious it was to be free, healthy, out 
in the open, under the shadow of the motmtain and cloud, 
in the teeth of the wind and rain and storm. 

Another dazzling blue blaze showed the bold mountain- 
side and the storm-driven clouds. In the flare of light 
Madeline saw Stewart’s face 

“Are you afraid?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied, simply. 

Then the thunderbolt racked the heavens, and as it 
boomed away in lessening power Madeline reflected with 
surprise upon Stewart’s answer. Something in his face 
had made her ask him what she considered a foolish ques- 
tion. His reply amazed her. She loved a storm. Why 
should he fear it — he, with whom she could not associate 
fear? 

“How strange! Have you not been out in many 
storms?” 

A smile that was only a gleam flitted over his dark 
face. 

“In hundreds of them. By day, with the cattle stam- 
peding. At night, alone on the mountain, with the pines 
crashing and the rocks rolling — in flood on the desert.” 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


229 


“It’s not only the lightning, then?” she asked. 

“No. All the storm.” 

Madeline felt that henceforth she would have less 
faith in what she had imagined was her love of the ele- 
ments. What little she knew! If this iron-nerved man 
feared a storm, then there was something about a storm 
to fear. 

And suddenly, as the grotmd quaked under her horse’s 
feet, and all the sky grew black and crisscrossed by 
flaming streaks, and between thunderous reports there 
was a strange hollow roar sweeping down upon her, she 
realized how small was her knowledge and experience of 
the mighty forces of nature. Then, with that perversity 
of character of which she was wholly conscious, she was 
humble, submissive, reverent, and fearful even while she 
gloried in the grandeur of the dark, cloud-shadowed crags 
and canons, the stupendous strife of sound, the wonder- 
ful driving lances of white fire. 

With blacker gloom and deafening roar came the torrent 
of rain. It was a cloud-burst. It was like solid water 
tumbling down. For long Madeline sat her horse, head 
bent to the pelting rain. When its force lessened and 
she heard Stewart call for all to follow, she looked up to 
see that he was starting once more. She shot a glimpse at 
Dorothy and as quickly glanced away. Dorothy, who 
would not wear a hat suitable for inclement weather, nor 
one of the horrid yellow, sticky slickers, was a drenched 
and disheveled spectacle. Madeline did not trust her- 
self to look at the other girls. It was enough to hear 
their lament. So she turned her horse into Stewart’s 
trail. 

Rain fell steadily. The fury of the storm, however, had 
passed, and the roll of thunder diminished in volume. 
jThe air had wonderfully cleared and was growing cool. 
‘Madeline began to feel uncomfortably cold and wet. 
Stewart was climbing faster than formerly, and she noted 
.that Monty kept at her heels, pressing her on. Time 
i had been lost, and the camp-site was a long way off. The 


230 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

stag-hounds began to lag and get footsore. The sharp 
rocks of the trail were cruel to their feet. Then, as Made- 
line began to tire, she noticed less and less around her. 
The ascent grew rougher and steeper — slow toil for pant- 
ing horses. The thinning rain grew colder, and sometimes 
a stronger whip of wind lashed stingingly in Madeline’s 
face. Her horse climbed and climbed, and brush and 
sharp comers of stone everlastingly pulled and tore at 
her wet garments. A gray gloom settled down around 
her. Night was approaching. Majesty heaved upward 
with a snort, the wet saddle creaked, and an even motion 
told Madeline she was on level ground. She looked up 
to see looming crags and spires, like huge pipe-organs, 
dark at the base and growing light upward. The rain 
had ceased, but the branches of fir-trees and juniper were 
water-soaked arms reaching out for her. Through an 
opening between crags Madeline caught a momentary 
glimpse of the west. Red sun-shafts shone through the 
murky, broken clouds. The sun had set. 

Stewart’s horse was on a jog-trot now, and Madeline 
left the trail more to Majesty than to her own choosing. 
The shadows deepened, and the crags grew gloomy and- 
spectral. A cool wind moaned through the dark trees. 
Coyotes, scenting the hounds, kept apace of them, and 
barked and howled off in the gloom. But the tired 
hounds did not appear to notice. 

As black night began to envelop her surroundings, 
Madeline marked that the fir-trees had given place to 
pine forest. Suddenly a pin-point of light pierced the 
ebony blackness. Like a solitary star in dark sky it 
twinkled and blinked. She lost sight of it — found it 
again. It grew larger. Black tree-tmnks crossed her 
line of vision. The light was a fire. She heard a cowboy 
song and the wild choms of a pack of coyotes. Drops 
of rain on the branches of trees glittered in the rays of 
the fire. Stewart’s tall figure, with sombrero slouched 
down, was now and then outlined against a growing circle 
of light. And by the aid of that light she saw him turn 


THE MOUNTAIN TRAIL 


231 

every moment or so to look back, probably to assure 
himself that she was close behind. 

With a prospect of fire and warmth, and food and rest, 
Madeline’s enthusiasm revived. What a climb! There 
was promise in this wild ride and lonely trail and hidden 
craggy height, not only in the adventture her friends 
yearned for, but in some nameless joy and spirit for 
herself. 


232 


XVI 


THE CRAGS 


LAD indeed was Madeline to be lifted off her horse 



beside a roaring fire — to see steaming pots upon red- 
hot coals. Except about her shoulders, which had been 
protected by the slicker, she was wringing wet. The 
Mexican women came quickly to help her change in a 
tent near by; but Madeline preferred for the moment to 
warm her numb feet and hands and to watch the spec- 
tacle of her arriving friends. 

Dorothy plumped off her saddle into the arms of sev- 
eral waiting cowboys. She could scarcely walk. Far 
removed in appearance was she from her usual stylish 
self. Her face was hidden by a limp and lopsided hat. 
From imder the disheveled brim came a plaintive moan: 
“0-h-h! what a-an a-awful ride!'’ Mrs. Beck was in 
worse condition; she had to be taken off her horse. “I’m 
paralyzed — I’m a wreck. Bobby, get a roller-chair.” 
Bobby was solicitous and willing, but there were no roller- 
chairs. Florence dismounted easily, and but for her 
mass of hair, wet and tumbling, would have been taken 
for a handsome cowboy. Edith Wayne had stood the 
physical strain of the ride better than Dorothy; hov/ever, 
as her moimt was rather small, she had been more at 
the mercy of cactus and brush. Her habit hung in 
tatters. Helen had preserved a remnant of style, as well 
as of pride, and perhaps a little strength. But her face 
was white, her eyes were big, and she limped. “Maj- 
esty!” she exclaimed. “What did you want to do to 
us? Kill us outright or make us homesick?” Of all of 
them, however, Ambrose’s wife, Christine, the little 


THE CRAGS 


m 

French maid, had suffered the most in that long ride. 
She was unaccustomed to horses. Ambrose had to carry 
her into the big tent. Florence persuaded Madeline to 
leave the fire, and when they went in with the others 
Dorothy was wailing because her wet boots would not 
come off, Mrs. Beck was weeping and trying to direct a 
Mexican woman to unfasten her bedraggled dress, and 
there was general pandemonium. 

“Warm clothes — hot drinks and grub — warm blankets,’* 
rang out Stewart’s sharp order. 

Then, with Florence helping the Mexican women, it 
was not long until Madeline and the feminine side of the 
party were comfortable, except for the weariness and aches 
that only rest and sleep could alleviate. 

Neither fatigue nor pains, however, nor the strange- 
ness of being packed sardine-like under canvas, nor the 
howls of coyotes, kept Madeline’s guests from stretching 
out with long, grateful sighs, and one by one dropping 
into deep slumber. Madeline whispered a little to Flor- 
ence, and laughed with her once or twice, and then the 
light flickering on the canvas faded and her eyelids closed. 
Darkness and roar of camp life, low voices of men, thump 
of horses’ hoofs, coyote serenade, the sense of warmth and 
sweet rest — all drifted away. 

When she awakened shadows of swaying branches 
moved on the sunlit canvas above her. She heard the 
ringing strokes of an ax, but no other sound from out- 
side. Slow, regular breathing attested to the deep 
slumbers of her tent comrades. She observed presently 
that Florence was missing from the number. Madeline 
rose and peeped out ^>etween the flaps. 

An exquisitely beautiful scene surprised and enthralled 
her gaze. She saw a level space, green with long grass, 
bright with flowers, dotted with groves of graceful firs 
and pines and spruces, reaching to superb crags, rosy and 
golden in the sunlight. Eager to get out where she could 
enjoy an unrestricted view, she searched for her pack. 


234 the light of western stars 

found it in a comer, and then hurriedly and quietly 
dressed. 

Her favorite stag-hounds, Russ and Tartar, were asleep 
before the door, where they had been chained. She 
awakened them and loosened them, thinking the while 
that it must have been Stewart who had chained them 
near her. Close at hand also was a cowboy’s bed rolled 
up in a tarpaulin. 

The cool air, fragrant with pine and spruce and some 
subtle nameless tang, sweet and tonic, made Madeline 
stand erect and breathe slowly and deeply. It was like 
drinking of a magic draught. She felt it in her blood, 
that it quickened its flow. Turning to look in the other 
direction, beyond the tent, she saw the remnants of last 
night’s temporary camp, and farther on a grove of beau- 
tiful pines from which came the sharp ring of the ax. 
Wider gaze took in a wonderful park, not only surrounded 
by lofty crags, but full of crags of lesser height, many 
lifting their heads from dark-green groves of trees. The 
morning sun, not yet above the eastern elevations, sent 
its rosy and golden shafts in between the towering rocks, 
to tip the pines. 

Madeline, with the hounds beside her, walked through 
the nearest grove. The ground was soft and springy and 
brown with pine-needles. Then she saw that a clump of 
trees had prevented her from seeing the most striking part 
of this natural park. The cowboys had selected a camp- 
site where they would have the morning sim and after- 
noon shade. Several tents and flies were already up; 
there was a huge lean-to made of spmce boughs ; cowboys 
were busy round several camp-fires; piles of packs lay 
covered with tarpaulins, and beds were rolled up under 
the trees. This space was a kind of rolling meadow, with 
isolated trees here and there, and other trees in aisles and 
circles; and it mounted up in low, grassy banks to great 
towers of stone five hundred feet high. Other crags rose 
behind these. From under a mossy cliff, huge and green 
and cool, * bubbled a full, clear spring. Wild flowers 


THE CRAGS 


235 


fringed its banks. Out in the meadow the horses were 
knee-deep in grass that waved in the morning breeze. 

Florence espied Madeline under the trees and came 
running. She was like a young girl, with life and color 
and joy. She wore a flannel blouse, corduroy skirt, and 
moccasins. And her hair was fastened under a band 
like an Indian’s. 

“Castleton’s gone with a gun, for hours, it seems,” said 
Florence. “Gene just went to hunt him up. The other 
gentlemen are still asleep. I imagine they sure will sleep 
up heah in this air.” 

Then, business-like, Florence fell to questioning Made- 
line about details of camp arrangement which Stewart, and 
Florence herself, could hardly see to without suggestion. 

Before any of Madeline’s vsleepy guests awakened the 
camp was completed. Madeline and Florence had a tent 
under a pine-tree, but they did not intend to sleep in it 
except during stormy weather. They spread a tarpaulin, 
made their bed on it, and elected to sleep under the light 
of the stars. After that, taking the hounds with them, 
they explored. To Madeline’s surprise, the park was not 
a little half-mile nook nestling among the crags, but ex- 
tended farther than they cared to walk, and was rather a 
series of parks. They were no more than small valleys 
between gray-toothed peaks. As the day advanced the 
charm of the place grew upon Madeline. Even at noon, 
with the sun beating down, there was comfortable warmth 
rather than heat. It was the kind of warmth that Made- 
line liked to feel in the spring. And the sweet, thin, rare 
atmosphere began to affect her strangely. She breathed 
deeply of it until she felt light-headed, as if her body 
lacked substance and might drift away like a thistle- 
down. All at once she grew uncomfortably sleepy. A 
dreamy languor possessed her, and, lying under a pine 
with her head against Florence, she went to sleep. When 
she opened her eyes the shadows of the crags stretched 
from the west, and between them streamed a red-gold 
light It was hazy, smol^y sunshine losing its Are. The 


236 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

afternoon had far advanced. Madeline sat up. Flor- 
ence was lazily reading. The two Mexican women were 
at work under the fly where the big stone fireplace had 
been erected. No one else was in sight. 

Florence, upon being questioned, informed Madeline 
that incident about camp had been delightfully absent. 
Castleton had returned and was profoundly sleeping with 
the other men. Presently a chorus of merry calls at- 
tracted Madeline’s attention, and she turned to see Helen 
limping along with Dorothy, and Mrs. Beck and Edith 
supporting each other. They were all rested, but lame, 
and delighted with the place, and as hungry as bears 
awakened from a winter’s sleep. Madeline forthwith 
escorted them round the camp, and through the many 
aisles between the trees, and to the mossy, pine-matted 
nooks under the crags. 

Then they had dinner, sitting on the ground after the 
manner of Indians ; and it was a dinner that lacked merri- 
ment only because everybody was too busily appeasing 
appetite. 

Later Stewart led them across a neck of the park, up a 
rather steep climb between towering crags, to take them 
out upon a grassy promontory that faced the great open 
west — a vast, ridged, streaked, and reddened sweep of 
earth rolling down, as it seemed, to the golden sunset end 
of the world. Castleton said it was a jolly fine view; 
Dorothy voiced her usual languid enthusiasm ; Helen was 
on fire with pleasure and wonder; Mrs. Beck appealed to 
Bobby to see how he liked it before she ventured, and she 
then reiterated his praise; and Edith Wayne, like Made- 
line and Florence, was silent. Boyd was politely inter- 
ested; he was the kind of man who appeared to care 
for things as other people cared for them. 

Madeline watched the slow transformation of the 
changing west, with its haze of desert dust, through which 
mountain and cloud and sun slowly darkened. She 
watched until her eyes ached, and scarcely had a thought 
of what she was watching. When her eyes shifted to 


THE CRAGS 


237 


encounter the tall form of Stewart standing motionless 
on the rim, her mind became active again. As usual, he 
stood apart from the others, and now he seemed aloof 
and unconscious. He made a dark, powerful figiu-e, and 
he fitted that wild promontory. 

She experienced a strange, annoying surprise when she 
discovered both Helen and Dorothy watching Stewart 
with peculiar interest. Edith, too, was alive to the 
splendid picture the cowboy made. But when Edith 
smiled and whispered in her ear, “It’s so good to look at 
a man like that,” Madeline again felt the surprise, only 
this time the accompaniment was a vague pleasure rather 
than annoyance. Helen and Dorothy were flirts, one 
deliberate and skilled, the other unconscious and natural. 
Edith Wayne, occasionally — and Madeline reflected that 
the occasions were infrequent — admired a man sincerely. 
Just here Madeline might have fallen into a somewhat 
revealing state of mind if it had not been for the fact 
that she believed Stewart was only an object of deep in- 
terest to her, not as a man, but as a part of this wild 
and wonderful West which was claiming her. 'So she did 
not inquire of herself why Helen’s coquetry and Dorothy’s 
languishing allurement annoyed her, or why Edith’s 
eloquent smile and words had pleased her. She got as 
far, however, as to think scornfully how Helen and Dor- 
othy would welcome and meet a flirtation with this cow- 
boy and then go back home and forget him as utterly 
as if he had never existed. She wondered, too, with a 
curious twist of feeling that was almost eagerness, how the 
cowboy would meet their advances. Obviously the situa- 
tion was unfair to him; and if by some strange accident 
he escaped unscathed by Dorothy’s beautiful eyes he 
would never be able to withstand Helen’s subtle and fas- 
cinating and imperious personality. 

They returned to camp in the cool of the evening and 
made merry round a blazing camp-fire. But Madeline’s 
guests soon succumbed to the persistent and irresistible 
desire to sleep. 


238 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

Then Madeline went to bed with Florence under the 
pine-tree. Russ lay upon one side and Tartar upon the 
other. The cool night breeze swept over her, fanning her 
face, waving her hair. It was not strong enough to make 
any sound through the branches, but it stirred a faint, 
silken rustle in the long grass. The coyotes began their 
weird bark and howl. Russ raised his head to growl at 
their impudence. 

Madeline faced upward, and it seemed to her that 
under those wonderful white stars she would never be 
able to go to sleep. They blinked down through the 
black-barred, delicate crisscross of pine foliage, and they 
looked so big and so close. Then she gazed away to open 
space, where an expanse of sky glittered with stars, and the 
longer she gazed the larger they grew and the more she saw. 

It was her belief that she had come to love all the 
physical things from which sensations of beauty and 
mystery and strength poured into her responsive mind; 
but best of all she loved these Western stars, for they 
were to have something to do with her life, were somehow 
to influence her destiny. 

For a few days the prevailing features of camp life for 
Madeline’s guests were sleep and rest. Dorothy Coombs 
slept through twenty-four hours, and then was so difficult 
to awaken that for a while her friends were alarmed. 
Helen almost fell asleep while eating and talking. The 
men were more visibly affected by the moimtain air than 
the women. Castleton, however, would not succumb to 
the strange drowsiness while he had a chance to prowl 
aroimd with a gun. 

This languorous spell disappeared presently, and then 
the days were full of life and action. Mrs. Beck and 
Bobby and Boyd, however, did not go in for anything very 
strenuous. Edith Wayne, too, preferred to walk through 
the groves or sit upon the grassy promontory. It was 
Helen and Dorothy who wanted to explore the crags and 
canons, and when they could not get the others to accom- 


THE CRAGS 


239 

pany them they went alone, giving the cowboy guides 
many a long climb. 

Necessarily, of course, Madeline and her guests were 
now thrown much in company with the cowboys. And 
the party grew to be like one big family. Her friends 
not only adapted themselves admirably to the situation, 
but came to revel in it. As for Madeline, she saw that 
outside of a certain proclivity of the cowboys to be gallant 
and on dress-parade and alive to possibilities of fun and 
excitement, they were not greatly different from what 
they were at all times. If there were a leveling process 
here it was made by her friends coming down to meet the 
Westerners. Besides, any class of people would tend to 
grow natural in such circumstances and environment. 

Madeline found the situation one of keen and double 
interest for her. If before she had cared to study her 
cowboys, particularly Stewart, now, with the contrasts 
afforded by her guests, she felt by turns she was amused 
and mystified and perplexed and saddened, and then 
again subtly pleased. 

Monty, once he had overcome his shyness, became a 
source of delight to Madeline, and, for that matter, to 
everybody. Monty had suddenly discovered that he was 
a success among the ladies. Either he was exalted to 
heroic heights by this knowledge or he made it appear 
so. Dorothy had been his undoing, and in justice to her 
Madeline believed her innocent. Dorothy thought Monty 
hideous to look at, and, accordingly, if he had been a hero 
a hundred times and had saved a hundred poor little 
babies’ lives, he could not have interested her. Monty 
followed her around, reminding her, she told Madeline, 
of a little adoring dog one moment and the next of a huge, 
devouring gorilla. 

Nels and Nick stalked at Helen’s heels like grenadiers 
on duty, and if she as much as dropped her glove they 
almost came to blows to see who should pick it up. 

In a way Castleton was the best feature of the camping 
party. He was such an absurd-looking little man, and 


240 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

nis abilities were at such tremendous odds with what 
might have been expected of him from his looks. He 
could ride, tramp, climb, shoot. He liked to help around 
the camp, and the cowboys could not keep him from it. 
He had an insatiable desire to do things that were new 
to him. The cowboys played innumerable tricks upon 
him, not one of which he ever discovered. He was serious, 
slow in speech and action, and absolutely imperturbable. 
If impertimbability could ever be good humor, then he 
was always good-hiunored. Presently the cowboys began 
to imderstand him, and then to like him. When they 
liked a man it meant something. Madeline had been 
sorry more than once to see how little the cowboys chose 
to speak to Boyd Harvey. With Castleton, however, 
they actually became friends. They did not know it, and 
certainly such a thing never occurred to him; all the same, 
it was a fact. And it grew solely out of the truth that the 
Englishman was manly in the only way cowboys could 
have interpreted manliness. When, after innumerable 
attempts, he succeeded in throwing the diamond-hitch on 
a pack-horse the cowboys began to respect him. Castleton 
needed only one more accomplishment to claim their 
hearts, and he kept trying that — to ride a bucking bronco. 
One of the cowboys had a bronco that they called Devil. 
Every day for a week Devil threw the Englishman all 
over the park, ruined his clothes, bruised him, and finally 
kicked him. Then the cowboys solidtously tried to make 
Castleton give up; and this was remarkable enough, for 
the spectacle of an English lord on a bucking bronco was 
one that any Westerner would have ridden a thousand 
miles to see. Whenever Devil , threw Castleton the cow- 
boys went into spasms. But Castleton did not know the 
meaning of the word fail, and there came a day when 
Devil could not throw him. Then it was a singular sight 
to see the men line up to shake hands with the cool Eng- 
lishm.an. Even Stewart, who had watched from the 
background, came forward with a warm and pleasant 
smile on his dark face. When Castleton went to his tent 


THE CRAGS 


241 

there was much characteristic cowboy talk, and this time 
vastly different from the former persiflage. 

“By Gawd!” ejaculated Monty Price, who seemed to 
be the most amazed and elated of them all. “Thet’s the 
fust Englishman I ever seen I He’s orful deceivin’ to look 
at, but I know now why England rules the wurrld. Jest 
take a peek at thet bronco. His spirit is broke. Rid 
by a leetle English dook no bigger ’n a grasshopper! 
Fellers, if it hain’t dawned on you yit, let Monty Price 
give you a hunch. There’s no flies on Castleton. An’ 
I’ll bet a million steers to a rawhide rope thet next he’ll 
be throwin’ a gun as good as Nels.” 

It was a distinct pleasure for Madeline to realize that 
she liked Castleton all the better for the traits brought 
out so forcibly by his association with the cowboys On 
the other hand, she liked the cowboys better for something 
in them that contact with Easterners brought out. This 
was especially true in Stewart’s case. She had been 
wholly wrong when she had imagined he would fall an 
easy victim to Dorothy’s eyes and Helen’s lures. He was 
^nd, helpful, courteous, and watchful. But he had no 
sentiment. He did not see Dorothy’s charms or feel 
Helen’s fascination. And their efforts to captivate him 
were now so obvious that Mrs. Beck taunted them, 
and Edith smiled knowingly, and Bobby and Boyd 
made pla3fful remarks. All of which cut Helen’s pride 
and hurt Dorothy’s vanity. They essayed open conquest 
of Stewart. 

So it came about that Madeline unconsciously admitted 
the cowboy to a place in her mind never occupied by any 
other. The instant it occurred to her why he was proof 
against the wiles of the other women she drove that amaz-. 
ing and strangely disturbing thought from her. Never- 
theless, as she was human, she could not help thinking 
and being pleased and enjoying a little the discomfiture 
of the two coquettes. 

Moreover, from this thought of Stewart, and the 
watchfulness growing out of it, she discovered more about 


242 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

him. He was not happy; ne often paced up and down 
the grove at night; he absented himself from camp some- 
times during the afternoon when Nels and Nick and 
Monty were there; he was always watching the trails, 
as if he expected to see some one come riding up. He 
alone of the cowboys did not indulge in the fun and talk 
around the camp-fire. He remained preoccupied and sad, 
and was always looking away into distance. Madeline 
had a strange sense of his guardianship over her; and, 
remembering Don Carlos, she im.agined he worried a good 
deal over his charge, and, indeed, over the safety of all the 
party. 

But if he did worry about possible visits from wander- 
ing guerrillas, why did he absent himself from camp? 
Suddenly into Madeline’s inquisitive mind flashed a re- 
membrance of the dark-eyed Mexican girl, Bonita, who 
had never been heard of since that night she rode Stewart’s- 
big horse out of El Cajon. The remembrance of her 
brought an idea. Perhaps Stevrart had a rendezvous in 
the mountains, and these lonely trips of his were to meet 
Bonita. With the idea hot blood flamed into Madeline’s 
cheek. Then she was amazed at her own feelings — amazed 
because her swiftest succeeding thought was to deny the 
idea — amazed that its conception had fired her cheek 
with shame. Then her old self, the one aloof from this 
red-blooded new self, gained control over her emotions. 

But Madeline found that new-born self a creature of 
strange power to return and govern at any moment. She 
found it fighting loyally for what intelligence and wisdom 
told her was only her romantic conception of a cowboy. 
She reasoned: If Stewart were the kind of man her 
feminine skepticism wanted to make him, he would not 
have been so blind to the coquettish advances of Helen 
and Dorothy. He had once been — she did not want to 
recall what he had once been. But he had been uplifted. 
Madeline Hammond declared that. She was swayed by 
a strong, beating pride, and her instinctive woman’s 
faith told her that he could not stoop to such dishonor. 


THE CRAGS 


243 

She reproachea herself for having momentarily thought 
of it. 

One afternoon a huge storm-cloud swooped out of the 
sky and enveloped the crags. It obscured the westering 
sun and laid a mantle of darkness over the park. Made- 
line was uneasy because several of her party, including 
Helen and Dorothy, had ridden off with the cowboys 
that afternoon and had not returned. Florence assured 
her that even if they did not get back before the storm 
broke there was no reason for apprehension. Neverthe- 
less, Madeline sent for Stewart and asked him to go or 
send some one in search of them. 

Perhaps half an hour later Madeline heard the welcome 
pattering of hoofs on the trail. The big tent was brightly 
lighted by several lanterns. Edith and Florence were 
with her. It was so black outside that Madeline could 
not see a rod before her face. The wind was moaning 
in the trees, and big drops of rain were pelting upon the 
canvas. 

Presently, just outside the door, the horses halted, and 
there was a sharp bustle of sound, such as would naturally 
result from a hurried dismounting and confusion in the 
dark. Mrs, Beck came running into the tent out of 
breath and radiant because they had beaten the storm. 
Helen entered next, and a little later came Dorothy, but 
long enough to make her entrance more noticeable. The 
instant Madeline saw Dorothy’s blazing eyes she knew 
something unusual had happened. Whatever it was 
might have escaped comment had not Helen caught sight 
of Dorothy. 

“Heavens, Dot, but you’re handsome occasionally!” 
remarked Helen. “When you get some life in your face 
and eyes!” 

Dorothy turned her face away from the others, and 
perhaps it was only accident that she looked into a mirror 
hanging on the tent wall. Swiftly she put her hand up 
to feel a wide red welt on her cheek. Dorothy had been 


244 the light of western stars 

assiduously careful of her soft, white skin, and here was 
an ugly mark marring its beauty. 

“Look at that!” she cried, in distress. “My com- 
plexion’s ruined!” 

“How did you get such a splotch?” inquired Helen, 
going closer. 

“I’ve been kissed!” exclaimed Dorothy, dramatically. 

“What?” queried Helen, more curiously, while the 
others laughed. 

“I’ve been kissed — hugged and kissed by one of those 
shameless cowboys ! It was so pitch-dark outside I 
couldn’t see a thing. And so noisy I couldn’t hear. But 
somebody was trying to help me off my horse. My foot 
caught in the stirrup, and away I went — right into some- 
body’s arms. Then he did it, the wretch! He hugged 
and kissed me in a most awful bearish manner. I 
couldn’t budge a finger. I’m simply boiling with 
rage!” 

When the outburst of mirth subsided Dorothy tirmed 
her big, dilated eyes upon Florence. 

“Do these cowboys really take advantage of a girl 
when she’s helpless and in the dark?” 

“Of course they do,” replied Florence, with her frank 
smile. 

“Dot, what in the world could you expect?” asked 
Helen. “Haven’t you been dying to be kissed?” 

“No.” 

“Well, you acted like it, then. I never before saw you 
in a rage over being kissed.” 

“ I — I wouldn’t care so much if the brute hadn’t scoured 
the skin off my face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff 
as sandpaper. And when I jerked away he rubbed m.y 
cheek with them.” 

This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity 
almost prostrated her friends with glee. 

“Dot, I agree with you; it’s one thing to be kissed, and 
quite another to have your beauty spoiled,” replied Helen, 
presently. “Who was this particular savage?” 


THE CRAGS 


Hi 

“I don’t know!” burst out Dorothy. “If I did I’d— 
I’d—” 

Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not 
speak. 

“Honestly now, Dot, haven’t you the least idea who 
did it.?” questioned Helen. 

“I hope — I think it was Stewart,” replied Dorothy. 

“Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My 
dear. I’m sorry to riddle your little romance. Stewart 
did not — could not have been the offender or hero.” 

“How do you know he couldn’t?” dem-anded Dorothy, 
flushing. 

“Because he was clean-shaven to-day at noon, before 
we rode out. I remember perfectly how nice and smooth 
and brown his face looked.” 

“Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so 
good, maybe you can tell me which one of these cowboys 
wasn’t clean-shaven.” 

“Merely a matter of elimination,” replied Helen, mer- 
rily. “It was not Nick; it was not Nels; it was not 
Frankie. There was only one other cowboy with us, and 
he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much like 
that cactus we passed on the trail.” 

“Oh, I was afraid of it,” moaned Dorothy. “I knew 
he was going to do it. That horrible little smiling demon, 
Monty Price!” 

A favorite lounging-spot of Madeline’s was a shaded 
niche under the lee of crags facing the east. Here the 
outlook was entirely different from that on the western 
side. It was not red and white and glaring, nor so change- 
able that it taxed attention. This eastern view was one 
of the mountains and valleys, where, to be sure, there 
were arid patches; but the restful green of pine and fir 
was there, and the cool gray of crags. Bold and rugged 
indeed were these mountain features, yet they were com- 
panionably close, not immeasurably distant and unat- 
tainable like the desert. Here in the shade of afternoon 


246 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

Madeline and Edith would often lounge under a low- 
branched tree. Seldom they talked much, for it was 
afternoon and dreamy with the strange spell of this 
mountain fastness. There was smolcy haze in the val- 
leys, a fleecy cloud resting over the peaks, a sailing eagle in 
the blue sky, silence that was the tmbroken silence of the 
wild heights, and a soft wind laden with incense of pine. 

One afternoon, however, Edith appeared prone to talk 
seriously. 

“Majesty, I must go home soon. I cannot stay out 
here forever. Are you going back with me?” 

“Well, maybe,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “I 
have considered it. I shall have to visit home some time. 
But this summer mother and father are going to Europe.” 

“See here. Majesty Hammond, do you intend to spend 
the rest of your life in this wilderness?” asked Edith, 
bluntly. 

Madeline was silent. 

“Oh, it is glorious! Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” 
went on Edith, earnestly, as she laid her hand on Made- 
line’s. “This trip has been a revelation to me. I did 
not tell you. Majesty, that I was ill when I arrived. 
Now I’m well. So well! Look at Helen, too. Why, 
she was a ghost when we got here. Now she is brown and 
strong and beautiful. If it were for nothing else than this 
wonderful gift of health I would love the West. But I 
have come to love it for other things — even spiritual 
things. Majesty, I have been studying you. I see and 
feel what this life has made of you. When I came I won- 
dered at your strength, your virility, your serenity, your 
happiness. And I was stunned. I wondered at the 
causes of your change. Now I know. You were sick 
of idleness, sick of uselessness, if not of society — sick of 
the horrible noises and smells and contacts one can no 
longer escape in the cities. I am sick of all that, too, and 
I could tell you many women of our kind who suffer in a 
like manner. You have done what many of us want to 
do, but have not the courage. You have left it. I am 


THE CRAGS 


247 


not 'blind to the splendid difference you have made in 
your life. I think I would have discovered, even if your 
brother had not told me, what good you have done to 
the Mexicans and cattlemen of your range. Then you 
have Work to do. That is much the secret of your happi- 
ness, is it not? Tell me. Tell me something of what it 
means to you?’^ 

“Work, of course, has much to do with any one’s hap- 
piness,” replied Madeline. “No one can be happy who 
has no work. As regards myself — for the rest I can hardly 
tell you. I have never tried to put it in words. Frankly, 
I believe, if I had not had money that I could not have 
found such contentment here. That is not in any sense 
a judgment against the West. But if I had been poor I 
could not have bought and maintained my ranch. Still- 
well tells me there are many larger ranches than mine, but 
none just like it. Then I am almost paying my expenses 
out of my business. Think of that ! My income, instead 
of being wasted, is mostly saved. I think — I hope I am 
useful. I have been of some little good to the Mexicans 
— eased the hardships of a few cowboys. For the rest, 
I think my life is a kind of dream. Of comse my ranch 
and range are real, my cowboys are typical. If I were to 
tell you how I feel about them it would simply be a story 
of how Madeline Hammond sees the West. They are true 
to the West. It is I who am strange, and what I feel for 
them may be strange, too. Edith, hold to your own 
impressions.” 

“But, Majesty, my impressions have changed. At 
first I did not like the wind, the dust, the sun, the endless 
open stretches. But now I do like them. Where once I 
saw only terrible wastes of barren ground now I see beauty 
and something noble. Then, at first, your cowboys struck 
me as dirty, rough, loud, crude, savage — all that was 
primitive. I did not want them near me. I imagined 
them callous, hard men, their only joy a carouse with 
their kind. But I was wrong. I have changed. The 
dirt was only dust, and this desert dust is clean. They 


248 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

are still rough, loud, crude, and savage in my eyes, but 
with a difference. They are natural men. They are 
little children. Monty Price is one of nature’s noblemen. 
The hard thing is to discover it.. All his hideous person, 
all his actions and speech, are masks of his real nature. 
Nels is a joy, a simple, sweet, kindly, quiet man whom 
some woman should have loved. What would love have 
meant to him ! He told me that no woman ever loved 
him except his mother, and he lost her when he was ten. 
Every man ought to be loved — especially such a man as 
Nels. Somehow his gun record does not impress me. I 
never could believe he killed a man. Then take your 
foreman, Stewart. He is a cowboy, his work and life 
the same as the others. But he has education and most 
of the graces we are in the habit of saying make a gentle- 
man. Stewart is a strange fellow, just like this strange 
country. He’s a man. Majesty, and I admire him. So, 
you see, my impressions are developing with my stay 
out here.” 

“Edith, I am so glad you told me that,” replied Made- 
line, warmly. 

“I like the country, and I like the men,” went on Edith. 
“One reason I want to go home soon is because I am dis- 
contented enough at home now, without falling in love 
with the West. For, of course, Majesty, I would. I 
could not live out here. And that brings me to my point. 
Admitting all the beauty and charm and wholesomeness 
and good of this wonderful country, still it is no place for 
you, Madeline Hammond. You have your position, your 
wealth, your name, your family. You must marry. You 
must have children. You must not give up all that for a 
quixotic life in a wilderness.” 

“I am convinced, Edith, that I shall live here all the 
rest of my life.” 

“Oh, Majesty! I hate to preach this way. But I 
promised your mother I would talk to you. And the 
truth is I hate — I hate what I’m saying. I envy you 
your courage and wisdom. I know you have refused to 


THE CRAGS 


249 


marry Boyd Harvey. I could see that in his face. I be- 
lieve you will refuse Castleton. Whom will you marry? 
What chance is there for a woman of your position to 
marry out here? What in the world will become of 
you?” 

^'Quien saheV^ replied Madeline, with a smile that was 
almost sad. 

Not so many hours after this conversation with Edith 
Madeline sat with Boyd Harvey upon the grassy prom- 
ontory overlooking the west, and she listened once again 
to his suave courtship. 

Suddenly she turned to him and said, “Boyd, if I mar- 
ried you would you be willing — glad to spend the rest of 
your life here in the West?” 

“Majesty!” he exclaimed. There was amaze in the 
voice usually so even and well modulated — amaze in the 
handsome face usually so indifferent. Her question had 
startled him. She saw him look down the iron-gray cliffs, 
over the barren slopes and cedared ridges, beyond the 
cactus-covered foothills to the grim and ghastly desert. 
Just then, with its red veils of sunlit dust-clouds, its 
illimitable waste of ruined and upheaved earth, it was a 
sinister spectacle. 

“No,” he replied, with a tinge of shame in his cheek. 

Madeline said no more, nor did he speak. She was 
spared the pain of refusing him, and she imagined he 
would never ask her again. There was both relief and 
regret in the conviction. Humiliated lovers seldom made 
good friends. 

It was impossible not to like Boyd Harvey. The thought 
of that, and why she could not marry him, concentrated 
her never-satisfied mind upon the man. She looked at 
him, and she thought of him. 

He was handsome, young, rich, well bom, pleasant, 
cultivated — he was all that made a gentleman of his class. 
If he had any vices she had not heard of them. She knew 
he had no thirst for drink or craze for gambling. He was 


250 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

considered a very desirable and eligible young man. 
Madeline admitted all this. 

Then she thought of things that were perhaps exclu- 
sively her own strange ideas. Boyd Harvey's white skin 
did not tan even in this southwestern sun and wind. His 
hands were whiter than her own, and as soft. They were 
really beautiful, and she remembered what care he took 
of them. They were a proof that he never worked. His 
frame was tall, graceful, elegant. It did not bear evidence 
of ruggedness. He had never indulged in a sport more 
strenuous than yachting. He hated effort and activity. 
He rode horseback very little, disliked any but moderate 
motoring, spent much time in Newport and Europe, never 
walked when he could help it, and had no ambition un- 
less it were to pass the days pleasantly. If he ever had 
any sons they would be like him, only a generation more 
toward the inevitable extinction of his race. 

Madeline returned to camp in just the mood to make 
a sharp, deciding contrast. It happened — fatefully, per- 
haps — that the first man she saw was Stewart. He had 
just ridden into camp, and as she came up he explained 
that he had gone down to the ranch for the important 
mail about which she had expressed anxiety. 

‘‘Down and back in one day!” she exclaimed. 

“Yes,” he replied. “It wasn’t so bad.” 

“But why did you not send one of the boys, and let 
him make the regular two-day trip?” 

“You were worried about yom mail,” he answered, 
briefly, as he delivered it. Then he bent to examine the 
fetlocks of his weary horse. 

It was midsummer now, Madeline reflected, and ex- 
ceedingly hot and dusty on the lower trail. Stewart had 
ridden down the moimtain and back again in twelve hours. 
Probably no horse in the outfit, except his big black or 
Majesty, could have stood that trip. And his horse 
showed the effects of a grueling day. He was caked with 
dust and lame and weary. 

Stewart looked as if he had spared the horse his weight 


THE CRAGS 


251 


cn many a mile of that rough ascent. His boots were 
evidence of it. His heavy flannel shirt, wet through with 
perspiration, adhered closely to his shoulders and arms, 
so that every ripple of muscle plainly showed. His face 
v^as black, except round the temples and forehead, where 
it was bright red. Drops of sweat, running off his black- 
ened hands, dripped to the ground. He got up from ex- 
amining the lame foot, and then threw off the saddle. 
The black horse snorted and lunged for the watering-pool. 
Stewart let him drink a little, then with iron arms dragged 
him away. In this action the man’s lithe, powerful form 
impressed Madeline with a wonderful sense of muscular 
force. His brawny wrist was bare; his big, strong hand, 
first clutching the horse’s mane, then patting his neck, 
had a bruised knuckle, and one finger was bound ui 
That hand expressed as much gentleness and thougl u 
fulness for the horse as it had strength to drag him ba 
from too much drinking at a dangerous moment. 

Stewart was a combination of fire, strength, and actio -. 
These attributes seemed to cling about him. There w - 
something vital and compelling in his presence. Worn 
and spent and drawn as he was from the long ride, he 
thrilled Madeline with his potential youth and unused 
vitality and promise of things to be, red-blooded deeds, 
both of flesh and spirit. In him she saw the strength of 
his forefathers unimpaired. The life in him was mar- 
velously significant. The dust, the dirt, the sweat, the 
soiled clothes, the bruised and bandaged hand, the brawn 
and bone — these had not been despised by the knights of 
ancient days, nor by modem women whose eyes shed s 
light upon coarse and bloody toilers. 

Madeline Hammond compared the man of the E - 
with the man of the West; and that comparison was the 
last parting regret for her old standards. 


252 


XVII 

THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 

I N the cool, starry evenings tne campers sat around a 
blazing fire and told and listened to stories thrillingly 
fitted to the dark crags and the wild solitude. 

Monty Price had come to shine brilliantly as a story- 
teller. He was an atrocious liar, but this fact would not 
have been evident to his enthralled listeners if his cow- 
boy comrades, in base jealousy, had not betrayed him. 
The truth about his remarkable fabrications, however, 
had not become known to Castleton, solely because of the 
Englishman’s obtuseness. And there was another thing 
much stranger than this and quite as amusing. Dorothy 
Coombs knew Monty was a liar; but she was so fascinated 
by the glittering, basilisk eyes he riveted upon her, so 
taken in by his horrible tales of blood, that despite her 
knowledge she could not help believing them. 

Manifestly Monty was very proud of his suddenly ac- 
quired gift. Formerly he had hardly been known to open 
his lips in the presence of strangers. Monty had de-- 
veloped more than one singular and hitherto unknown 
trait since his supremacy at golf had revealed his possi- 
bilities. He was as sober and vain and pompous about 
his capacity for lying as about anything else. Some of 
the cowboys were jealous of him because he held the at- 
tention and, apparently, the admiration of the ladies; 
and Nels was jealous, not because Monty made himself 
out to be a wonderful gun-man, but because Monty could 
tell a story. Nels really had been the hero of a hundred 
fights; he had never been known to talk about them; 


THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 253 

but Dorothy’s eyes and Helen’s smile had somehow upset 
his modesty. Whenever Monty would begin to talk Nels 
would growl and knock his pipe on a log, and make it 
appear he could not stay and listen, though he never 
really left the charmed circle of the camp-fire. Wild 
horses could not have dragged him away. 

One evening at twilight, as Madeline was leaving her 
tent, she encountered Monty. Evidently, he had way- 
laid her. With the most mysterious of signs and whis- 
pers he led her a little aside. 

“Miss Hammond, I’m makin’ bold to ask a favor of 
you,” he said. 

Madeline smiled her willingness. 

“To-night, when they’ve all shot off their chins an’ 
it’s quiet-like, I want you to ask me, jest this way, ‘ Monty, 
seein’ as you’ve hed more adventures than all them cow- 
pimchers put together, tell us about the most turrible 
time you ever hed.’ Will you ask me. Miss Hammond, 
jest kinda sincere like?” 

“Certainly I will, Monty,” she replied. 

His dark, seared face had no more warmth than a piece 
of cold, volcanic rock, which it resembled. Madeline ap- 
preciated how monstrous Dorothy found this burned and 
distorted visage, how deformed the little man looked to 
a woman of refined sensibilities. It was difficult for 
Madeline to look into his face. But she saw behind the 
blackened mask. And now she saw in Monty’s deep eyes 
a spirit of pure fun. 

So, true to her word, Madeline remembered at an op- 
portune moment, when conversation had hushed and 
only the long, dismal wail of coyotes broke the silence, 
to turn toward the little cowboy. 

“Monty,” she said, and paused for effect — “Monty, 
seeing that you have had more adventures than all the 
cowboys together, tell us about the most terrible time 
you ever had.” 

Monty appeared startled at the question that fastened 
all eyes upon him. He waved a deprecatory hand. 


254 the light of WESTERN STARS 

“Aw, MiSvS Hammond, thankin’ you all modest-like fer 
the compliment, I’ll hev to refuse,” replied Monty, labor- 
ing in distress. “It’s too harrowin’ fer tender-hearted 
gurls to listen to.” 

“Go on!” cried everybody except the cowboys. Nels 
began to nod his head as if he, as well as Monty, under- 
stood human nature. Dorothy hugged her knees with a 
kind of shudder. Monty had fastened the hypnotic eyes 
upon her. Castleton ceased smoking, adjusted his eye- 
glass, and prepared to listen in great earnestness. 

Monty changed his seat to one where the light from the 
blazing logs fell upon his face; and he appeared plunged 
into melancholy and profound thought. 

“Now I tax myself, I can’t jest decide which was the 
orfulest time I ever hed,” he said, reflectively. 

Here Nels blew forth an immense cloud of smoke, as 
if he desired to hide himself from sight. Monty pondered, 
and then when the smoke rolled away he turned to 
Nels. 

“See hyar, old pard, me an’ you seen somethin’ of each 
other in the Panhandle, more ’n thirty years ago — ” 

‘ ‘ Which we didn’t, ’ ’ interrupted Nels, bluntly. ‘ ‘ Shore 
you can’t make me out an ole man.” 

“Mebbe it wasn’t so dam long. Anyhow, Nels, you 
recollect them three hoss-thieves I hung all on one cotton- 
wood-tree, an’ likewise thet boo-tiful blond gurl I res- 
cooed from a band of cutthroats who murdered her paw, 
ole Bill Warren, the buffalo-hunter? Now, which of them 
two scraps was the turriblest, in your idee?” 

“Monty, my memory’s shore bad,” replied the unim- 
peachable Nels. 

“Tell us about the beautiful blonde,” cried at least 
three of the ladies. Dorothy, who had suffered from 
nightmare because of a former story of hanging men on 
trees, had voicelessly appealed to Monty to spare her more 
of that. 

“All right, we’ll hev the blond gurl,” said Monty, 
settling back, “though I ain’t thinkin’ her story is most 


THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 255 

turrible of the two, an’ It ’ll rake over tender affections 
long slumberin’ in my breast.” 

As he paused there came a sharp, rapping sound. This 
appeared to be Nels knocking the ashes out of his pipe 
on a sttunp — a true indication of the passing of content 
from that jealous cowboy. 

“It was down in the Panhandle, ’way over in the west 
end of thet Comanche huntin’-ground, an’ all the redskins 
an’ outlaws in thet country were hidin’ in the river-bot- 
toms, an’ chasin’ some of the last buffalo herds thet hed 
wintered in there. I was a young buck them days, an’ 
purty much of a desperado, I’m thinkin’. Though of 
all the seventeen notches on my gun — an’ each notch 
meant a man killed face to face — there was only one thet 
I was ashamed of. Thet one was fer an express mes- 
senger who I hit on the head most unprofessional like, 
jest because he wouldn’t hand over a leetle package. I 
hed the kind of a reputashun thet made all the fellers in 
saloons smile an’ buy drinks. 

“Well, I dropped into a place named Taylor’s Bend, 
an’ was peaceful standin’ to the bar when three cow- 
punchers come in, an’, me bein’ with my back turned, they 
didn’t recognize me an’ got playful. I didn’t stop drink- 
in’, an’ I didn’t turn square round; but when I stopped 
shootin’ under my ami the saloon-keeper hed to go over 
to the sawmill an’ fetch a heap of sawdust to cover up 
what was left of them three cow-punchers, after they was 
hauled out. You see, I was rough them days, an’ would 
shoot ears off an’ noses off an’ hands off; when in later 
days I’d jest kill a man quick, same as Wild Bill. 

“News drifts into town thet night thet a gang of cut- 
throats hed murdered ole Bill Warren an’ carried off his 
gurl. I gathers up a few good gun-men, an’ we rid out 
an’ down the river-bottom, to an ole log cabin, where the 
outlaws hed a rondevoo. We rid up boldlike, an’ made 
a hell of a racket. Then the gang began to throw lead 
from the cabin, an’ we all hunted cover. Fightin’ went 
on all night. In the morain’ all my outfit was killed but 


256 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

two, an’ they was shot up bad. We fought all day with- 
out eatin’ or drinkin’, except some whisky I hed, an’ at 
night I was on the job by my lonesome. 

“Bein’ bunged up some myself, I laid off an’ went down 
to the river to wash the blood off, tie up my wounds, an’ 
drink a leetle. While I was down there along comes 
one of the cutthroats with a bucket. Instead of gettin’ 
water he got lead, an’ as he was about to croak he tells 
me a whole bunch of outlaws was headin’ in there, doo 
to-morrer. An’ if I wanted to rescoo the gurl I hed to 
be hurryin’. There was five fellers left in the cabin. 

“I went back to the thicket where I hed left my hoss, 
an’ loaded up with two more guns an’ another belt, an’ 
busted a fresh box of shells. If I recollect proper, I got 
some cigarettes, too. Well, I mozied back to the cabin. 
It was a boo-tiful moonshiny night, an’ I wondered if ole 
Bill’s gurl was as piu*ty as I’d heerd. The grass growed 
long round the cabin, an’ I crawled up to the door without 
startin’ anythin’. Then I figgered. There was only one 
door in thet cabin, an’ it was black dark inside. I jest 
grabbed open the door an’ slipped in quick. It worked 
all right. They heerd me, but hedn’t been quick enough 
to ketch me in the light of the door. Of course there was 
some shots, but I ducked too quick, an’ changed my 
position. 

“Ladies an’ gentlemen, thet there was some dool by 
night. An’ I wasn’t often in the place where they shot. 
I was most wonderful patient, an’ jest waited until one 
of them darned ruffians would get so nervous he’d hev 
to hunt me up. When momin’ come there they was all 
piled up on the floor, all shot to pieces. I found the gurl. 
Purty! Say, she was boo-tiful. We went down to the 
river, where she begun to bathe my wounds. I’d col- 
lected a dozen more or so, an’ the sight of tears in her 
lovely eyes, an’ my blood a-stainin’ of her little hands, jest 
nat’rally wakened a trembly spell in my heart. I seen 
she was took the same way, an’ thet settled it. 

“We was cornin’ up from the river, an’ I hed jest 


THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 257 

straddled my hoss, with the gurl behind, when we run 
right into thet cutthroat gang thet was doo about then. 
Bein’ some handicapped, I couldn’t drop more ’n one gim- 
round of them, an’ then I hed to slope. The whole gang 
follered me, an’ some miles out chased me over a ridge 
right into a big herd of buffalo. Before I knowed what 
was what thet herd broke into a stampede, with me in the 
middle. Purty soon the buffalo closed in tight. I 
knowed I was in some peril then. But the gurl trusted 
me somethin’ pitiful. I seen again thet she hed fell in 
love with me. I could tell from the way she hugged me 
an’ yelled. Before long I was some put to it to keep 
my hoss on his feet. Far as I could see was dusty, black, 
bobbin’, shaggy humps. A huge cloud of dust went 
along over our heads. The roar of tramplin’ hoofs was 
turrible. My hoss weakened, went down, an’ was car- 
ried along a leetle while I slipped off with the gurl on to 
the backs of the buffalo. 

“Ladies, I ain’t denyin’ that then Monty Price was 
some scairt. Fust time in my life! But the trustin’ face 
of thet boo-tiful gurl, as she lay in my arms an’ hugged 
me an’ yelled, made my spirit leap like a shootin’ star. I 
just began to jump from buffalo to buffalo. I must hev 
jumped a mile of them bobbin’ backs before I come to 
open places. An’ here’s where I performed the greatest 
stunts of my life. I hed on my big spurs, an’ I jest sit 
down an’ rid an’ spurred till thet perticlder buffalo I was 
on got near another, an’ then I’d flop over. Thusly I got 
to the edge of the herd, tumbled off’n the last one, an’ 
rescooed the gurl. 

“Well, as my memory takes me back, thet was a most 
affectin’ walk home to the little town where she lived. 
But she wasn’t troo to me, an’ married another feller. 
I was too much a sport to kill him. But thet low-down 
trick rankled in my breast. Gurls is strange. I’ve never 
stopped wonderin’ how any gurl who has been hugged 
an’ kissed by one man could marry another. But matoor 
experience teaches me thet sich is the case.” 


258 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

The cowboys roared; Helen and Mrs. Beck and Edith 
laughed till they cried; Madeline found repression abso- 
lutely impossible; Dorothy sat hugging her knees, her 
horror at the story no greater than at Monty’s unmis- 
takable reference to her and to the fickleness of women; 
and Castleton for the first time appeared to be moved 
out of his impertturbability, though not in any sense by 
humor. Indeed, when he came to notice it, he was dum- 
founded by the mirth. 

“By Jove! you Americans are an extraordinary peo- 
ple,” he said. “I don’t see anything blooming fimny in 
Mr. Price’s story of his adventure. By Jove! that was 
a bally warm occasion. Mr. Price, when you speak of 
being frightened for the only time in your life, I appreciate 
what you mean. I have experienced that. I was fright- 
ened once.” 

“Book, I wouldn’t hev thought it of you,” replied 
Monty. “I’m sure tolerable curious to hear about 
it.” 

Madeline and her friends dared not break the spell, 
for fear that the Englishman might hold to his usual 
modest reticence. He had explored in Brazil, seen ser- 
vice in the Boer War, hunted in India and Africa — matters 
of experience of which he never spoke. Upon this oc- 
casion, however, evidently taking Monty’s recital word 
for word as literal truth, and excited by it into a Homeric 
mood, he might tell a story. The cowboys almost fell 
upon their knees in their importunity. There was a sup- 
pressed eagerness in their solicitations, a hint of some- 
thing that meant more than desire, great as it was, to 
hear a story told by an English lord. Madeline divined 
instantly that the cowboys had suddenly fancied that 
Castleton was not the dense and easily fooled person they 
had made such game of; that he had played his part 
well; that he was having fun at their expense; that he 
meant to tell a story, a lie which would simply dwarf 
Monty’s. Nels’s keen, bright expectation suggested 
how he would welcome the joke turned upon Monty. 


THE LOST ALINE OF THE PADRES 259 

The slow closing of Monty’s cavernous smile, the grad- 
ual sinking of his proud bearing, the doubt with which 
he began to regard Castleton — these were proofs of his 
fears. 

“I have faced charging tigers and elephants in India, 
and charging rhinos and lions in Africa,” began Castleton, 
his quick and fluent speech so different from the drawl 
of his ordinary conversation; “but I never was frightened 
but once. It will not do to hunt those wild beasts if you 
are easily balled up. This adventure I have in mind hap- 
pened in British East Africa, in Uganda. I was out with 
safari, and we were in a native district much infested by 
man-eating lions. Perhaps I may as well state that man- 
eaters are very different from ordinary lions. They are 
always matured beasts, and sometimes— indeed, mostly — 
are old. They become man-eaters most likely by acci- 
dent or necessity. When old they find it more difficult 
to make a kill, being slower, probably, and with poorer 
teeth. Driven by hunger, they stalk and kill a native, 
and, once having tasted human blood, they want no other. 
They become absolutely fearless and terrible in their 
attacks. 

“The natives of this village near where we camped 
were in a terrorized state owing to depredations of two 
or more man-eaters. The night of our arrival a lion leaped 
a stockade fence, seized a native from among others sitting 
round a fire, and leaped out again, carrying the screaming 
fellow away into the darkness. I determined to kill these 
lions, and made a permanent camp in the village for that 
purpose. By day I sent beaters into the brush and rocks 
of the river-valley, and by night I watched. Every night 
the lions visited us, but I did not see one. I discovered 
that when they roared around the camp they were not 
so liable to attack as when they were silent. It was in- 
deed remarkable how silently they could stalk a man. 
They could creep through a thicket so dense you would 
not believe a rabbit could get through, and do it without 
the slightest sound. Then, when ready to charge, they did 


26 o the light of western stars 


so with terrible onslaught and roar. They leaped right 
into a circle of fires, tore down huts, even dragged natives 
from the low trees. There was no way to tell at which 
point they would make an attack. 

“After ten days or more of this I was worn out by loss 
of sleep. And one night, when tired out with watching, 
I fell asleep. My gun-bearer was alone in the tent with 
me. A terrible roar awakened me, then an unearthly 
scream pierced right into my ears. I always slept with 
my rifle in my hands, and, grasping it, I tried to rise. But 
I could not for the reason that a lion was standing over 
me. Then I lay still. The screams of my gun-bearer 
told me that the lion had him. I was fond of this fellow 
and wanted to save him. I thought it best, however, not 
to move while the lion stood over me. Suddenly he 
stepped, and I felt poor Luki’s feet dragging across me. 
He screamed, ‘Save me, master!’ And instinctively I 
grasped at him and caught his foot. The lion walked out 
of the tent dragging me as I held to Luki’s foot. The 
night was bright moonlight. I could see the lion dis- 
tinctly. He was a huge, black-maned brute, and he held 
Luki by the shoulder. The poor lad kept screaming 
frightfully. The man-eater must have dragged me forty 
yards before he became aware of a double incumbrance 
to his progress. Then he halted and turned. By Jove! 
he made a devilish fierce object with his shaggy, massive 
head, his green-fire eyes, and his huge jaws holding Luki. 
I let go of Luki’s foot and bethought myself of the gun. 
But as I lay there on my side, before attempting to rise, 
I made a horrible discover}^. I did not have my rifle at all. 
I had Luki’s iron spear, which he always had near him. 
My rifle had slipped out of the hollow of my arm, and 
when the lion awakened me, in my confusion I picked up 
Luki’s spear instead. The bloody brute dropped Luki 
and uttered a roar that shook the ground. It was then I 
felt frightened. For an instant I was almost paralyzed. 
The lion meant to charge, and in one spring he could 
reach me. Under circumstances like those a man can 


THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 261 


think many things in little time. I knew to try to run 
would be fatal. I remembered how strangely lions had 
been known to act upon occasion. One had been fright- 
ened by an umbrella; one had been frightened by a blast 
from a cow-hom ; another had been frightened by a native 
who in running from one lion ran right at the other which 
he had not seen. Accordingly, I wondered if I could 
frighten the lion that meant to leap at me. Acting upon 
wild impulse, I prodded him in the hind quarters with the 
spear. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a blooming idiot 
if that lion did not cower like a whipped dog, put his tail 
down, and begin to slink away. Quick to see my chance, 
I jumped up yelling, and made after him, prodding him 
again. He let out a bellow such as you could imagine 
would come from an outraged king of beasts. I prodded 
again, and then he loped off. I found Luki not badly 
hurt. In fact, he got well. But I’ve never forgotten 
that scare.” 

When Castleton finished his narrative there was a 
trenchant silence. All eyes were upon Monty. He looked 
beaten, disgraced, a disgusted man. Yet there shone 
from his face a wonderful admiration for Castleton. 

“Book, you win!” he said; and, dropping his head, he 
left the camp-fire circle with the manner of a deposed 
emperor. 

Then the cowboys exploded. The quiet, serene, low- 
voiced Nels yelled like a madman and he stood upon his 
head. All the other cowboys went through marvelous 
contortions. Mere noise was insufficient to relieve their 
joy at what they considered the fall and humiliation of 
the tyrant Monty. 

The Englishman stood there and watched them in 
amused consternation. They baffled his understanding. 
Plain it was to Madeline and her friends that Castleton 
had told the simple truth. But never on the earth, or 
anywhere else, could Nels and his comrades have been 
persuaded that Castleton had not lied deliberately to 
hximble their great exponent of Ananias. 


262 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


Everybody seemed reluctant to break the camp-fire 
spell. The logs had burned out to a great heap of opal 
and gold and red coals, in the heart of which quivered a 
glow alluring to the spirit of dreams. As the blaze sub- 
sided the shadows of the pines encroached darker and 
darker upon the circle of fading light. A cool wind fanned 
the embers, whipped up flakes of white ashes, and moaned 
through the trees. The wild yelps of coyotes were dying 
in the distance, and the sky was a wonderful dark-blue 
dome spangled with white stars. 

“What a perfect night!” said Madeline. “This is a 
night to understand the dream, the mystery, the wonder 
of the Southwest. Florence, for long you have promised 
to tell us the story of the lost mine of the padres. It will 
give us all pleasure, make us understand something of the 
thrall in which this land held the Spaniards who discovered 
it so many years ago. It will be especially interesting 
now, because this mountain hides somewhere under its 
crags the treasures of the lost mine of the padres.” 

‘In the sixteenth century,” Florence began, in her soft, 
slow voice so suited to the nature of the legend, “a poor 
young padre of New Spain was shepherding his goats upon 
a hill when the Virgin appeared before him. He pros- 
trated himself at her feet, and when he looked up she was 
gone. But upon the maguey plant near where she had 
stood there were golden ashes of a strange and wonder- 
ful substance. He took the incident as a good omen and 
went again to the hilltop. Under the maguey had sprung 
up slender stalks of white, bearing delicate gold flowers, 
and as these flowers waved in the wind a fine golden dust, 
as fine as powdered ashes, blew away toward the north. 
Padre Juan was mystified, but believed that great fortune 
attended upon him and his poor people. So he went 
again and again to the hilltop in hope that the Virgin 
would appear to him. 

“One morning, as the sun rose gloriously, he looked 
across the windy hill toward the waving grass and golden 


THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 263 

flowers under the maguey, and he saw the Virgin beckon- 
ing to him. Again he fell upon his knees; but she lifted 
him and gave him of the golden flowers, and bade him 
leave his home and people to follow where these blowing 
golden ashes led. There he would find gold — pure gold — 
wonderful fortune to bring back to his poor people to 
build a church for them, and a city. 

‘'Padre Juan took the flowers and left his home, prom- 
ising to return, and he traveled northward over the hot 
and dusty desert, through the mountain passes, to a new 
country where fierce and warlike Indians menaced his 
life. He was gentle and good, and of a persuasive speech. 
Moreover, he was young and handsome of person. The 
Indians were Apaches, and among them he became a 
missionary, while always he was searching for the flowers 
of gold. He heard of gold lying in pebbles upon the 
moimtain slopes, but he never foimd any. A few of the 
Apaches he converted; the most of them, however, were 
prone to be hostile to him and his religion. But Padre 
Juan prayed and worked on. 

“There came a time when the old Apache chief, imag- 
ining the padre had designs upon his influence with the 
tribe, sought to put him to death by fire. The chief’s 
daughter, a beautiful, dark-eyed maiden, secretly loved 
Juan and believed in his mission, and she interceded for 
his life and saved him. Juan fell in love with her. One 
day she came to him wearing golden flowers in her dark 
hair, and as the wind blew the flowers a golden dust blew 
upon it. Juan asked her where to find such flowers, and 
she told him that upon a certain day she would take him 
to the mountain to look for them. And upon the day she 
led up to the mountain-top from which they could see 
beautiful valleys and great trees and cool waters. There, 
at the top of a wonderful slope that looked down upon 
the world, she showed Juan the flowers. And Juan 
found gold in such abundance that he thought he would 
go out of his mind. Dust of gold ! Grains of gold ! Peb- 
bles of gold! Rocks of gold! He was rich beyond all 


264 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

dreams. He remembered the Virgin and her words. He 
must return to his people and build their church, and the 
great city that would bear his name. 

‘‘But Juan tarried. Always he was going manana. 
He loved the dark-eyed Apache girl so well that he could 
not leave her. He hated himself for his infidelity to his 
Virgin, to his people. He was weak and false, a sinner. 
But he could not go, and he gave himself up to love of the 
Indian maiden. 

“The old Apache chief discovered the secret love of 
his daughter and the padre. And, fierce in his anger, he 
took her up into the mountains and burned her alive and 
cast her ashes upon the wind. He did not kill Padre 
Juan. He was too wise, and perhaps too cruel, for he 
saw the strength of Juan’s love. Besides, many of his 
tribe had learned much from the Spaniard. 

“Padre Juan fell into despair. He had no desire to 
live. He faded and wasted away. But before he died 
he went to the old Indians who had burned the maiden, 
and he begged them, when he was dead, to bum his body 
and to cast his ashes to the wind from that wonderful 
slope, where they would blow away to mingle forever with 
those of his Indian sweetheart. 

“The Indians promised, and when Padre Juan died they 
burned his body and took his ashes to the mountain 
heights and cast them to the wind, where they drifted and 
fell to mix with the ashes of the Indian girl he had loved. 

“Years passed. More padres traveled across the desert 
to the home of the Apaches, and they heard the story of 
Juan. Among their number was a padre who in his 
youth had been one of Juan’s people. He set Jforth to 
find Juan’s grave, where he believed he would also find 
the gold. And he came back with pebbles of gold and 
flowers that shed a golden dust, and he told a wonderful 
story. He had climbed and climbed into the mountains, 
and he had come to a wonderful slope under the crags. 
That slope was yellow with golden flowers. When he 
touched them golden ashes drifted from them and blew 


THE LOST MINE OF THE PADRES 265 

down among the rocks. There the padre found dust of 
gold, grains of gold, pebbles of gold, rocks of gold. 

“Then all the padres went into the mountains. But 
the discoverer of the mine lost his way. They searched 
and searched until they were old and gray, but never 
found the wonderful slope and flowers that marked the 
grave and the mine of Padre Juan. 

“In the succeeding years the story was handed down 
from father to son. But of the many who hunted for 
the lost mine of the padres there was never a Mexican 
or an Apache. For the Apache the mountain slopes were 
haunted by the spirit of an Indian maiden who had been 
false to her tribe and forever accursed. For the Mexican 
the mountain slopes were haunted by the spirit of the 
false padre who rolled stones upon the heads of those 
adventurers who sought to find his grave and his ac- 
cursed gold.” 


266 


XVIII 

BONITA 

F LORENCE’S story of the lost mine fired Madeline’s 
guests with the fever for gold-hunting. But after 
they had tried it a few times and the glamour of the thing 
wore off they gave up and remained in camp. Having 
exhausted all the resources of the mountain, such that had 
interest for them, they settled quietly down for a rest, 
which Madeline knew would soon end in a desire for civil- 
ized comforts. They were almost tired of roughing it. 
Helen’s discontent manifested itself in her remark, “I 
guess nothing is going to happen, after all.” 

Madeline awaited their pleasure in regard to the break- 
ing of camp; and meanwhile, as none of them cared for 
more exertion, she took her walks without them, some- 
times accompanied by one of the cowboys, always by the 
stag-hounds. These walks furnished her exceeding pleas- 
ure. And, now that the cowboys would talk to her with- 
out reserve, she grew fonder of listening to their simple 
stories. The more she knew of them the more she doubted 
the wisdom of shut-in lives. Companionship with Nels 
and most of the cowboys was in its effect like that of the 
rugged pines and crags and the untainted wind. Humor, 
their predominant trait when a person grew to know them, 
saved Madeline from finding their hardness trying. They 
were dreamers, as all men who lived lonely lives in the 
wilds were dreamers. 

The cowboys all had secrets. Madeline learned some 
of them. She marveled most at the strange way in which 
they hid emotions, except of violence of mirth and temper 
so easily aroused. It was all the more remarkable in view 


BONITA 


267 

of the fact that they felt intensely over little things to 
which men of the world were blind and dead. Madeline 
had to believe that a hard and perilous life in a barren 
and wild country developed great principles in men. 
Living close to earth, under the cold, bleak peaks, on the 
dust- veiled desert, men grew like the nature that de- 
veloped them — hard, fierce, terrible, perhaps, but big — 
big with elemental force. 

But one day, while out walking alone, before she real- 
ized it she had gone a long way down a dim trail winding 
among the rocks. It was the middle of a summer after- 
noon, and all about her were shadows of the crags cross- 
ing the sunlit patches. The quiet was undisturbed. She 
went on and on, not blind to the fact that she was perhaps 
going too far from camp, but risking it because she was 
sure of her way back, and enjoying the wild, craggy re- 
cesses that were new to her. Finally she came out upon 
a bank that broke abruptly into a beautiful little glade. 
Here she sat down to rest before undertaking the return 
trip. 

Suddenly Russ, the keener of the stag-hounds, raised 
his head and growled. Madeline feared he might have 
scented a mountain-lion or wildcat. She quieted him 
and carefully looked around. To each side was an irregu- 
lar line of massive blocks of stone that had weathered 
from the crags. The little glade was open and grassy, 
with here a pine-tree, there a boulder. The outlet seemed 
to go down into a wilderness of canons and ridges. Look- 
ing in this direction, Madeline saw the slight, dark figure 
of a woman coming stealthily along under the pines. 
Madeline was amazed, then a little frightened, for that 
stealthy walk from tree to tree was suggestive of secrecy, 
if nothing worse. 

Presently the woman was joined by a tall man who 
carried a package, which he gave to her. They came on 
up the glade and appeared to be talking earnestly. In 
another moment Madeline recognized Stewart. She had 
no greater feeling of surprise than had at first been hers. 


268 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


But for the next moment she scarcely thought at all — 
merely watched the couple approaching. In a flash came 
back her former curiosity as to Stewart’s strange absences 
from camp, and then with the return of her doubt of him 
the recognition of the woman. The small, dark head, the 
brown face, the big eyes — Madeline now saw distinctly — 
belonged to the Mexican girl Bonita. Stewart had met 
her there. This was the secret of his lonely trips, taken 
ever since he had come to work for Madeline. This 
secluded glade was a rendezvous. He had her hidden 
there. 

Quietly Madeline arose, with a gesture to the dogs, and 
W’ent back along the trail toward camp. Succeeding her 
surprise was a feeling of sorrow that Stewart’s regenera- 
tion had not been complete. Sorrow gave place to in- 
sufferable distrust that while she had been romancing 
about this cowboy, dreaming of her good influence over 
him, he had been merely base. Somehow it stung her. 
Stewart had been nothing to her, she thought, yet she had 
been proud of him. She tried to revolve the thing, to 
be fair to him, when every instinctive tendency was to 
expel him, and all pertaining to him, from her thoughts. 
And her effort at sympathy, at extenuation, failed utterly 
before her pride. Exerting her will-power, she dismissed 
Stewart from her mind. 

Madeline did not think of him again till late that after- 
noon, when, as she was leaving her tent to join several of 
her guests, Stewart appeared suddenly in her path. 

‘‘Miss Hammond, I saw your tracks down the trail,” 
he began, eagerly, but his tone was easy and natural. 
“I’m thinking — well, maybe you sure got the idea — ” 

“I do not wish for an explanation,” interrupted Made- 
line. 

Stewart gave a slight start. His manner had a sem- 
blance of the old, cool audacity. As he looked down at 
her it subtly changed. 

What effrontery, Madeline thought, to face her before 
her guests with an explanation of his conduct ! Suddenly 


BONITA 


269 


she felt an inward flash of fire that was pain, so strange, 
so incomprehensible, that her mind whirled. Then anger 
possessed her, not at Stewart, but at herself, that any- 
thing could rouse in her a raw emotion. She stood there, 
outwardly cold, serene, with level, haughty eyes upon 
Stewart; but inwardly she was burning with rage and 
shame. 

“I’m sure not going to have you think — ” He began 
passionately, but he broke off, and a slow, dull crimson 
blotted over the healthy red-brown of his neck and 
cheeks. 

“What you do or think, Stewart, is no concern of mine.” 

“Miss — Miss Hammond! You don’t believe — ” fal- 
tered Stewart. 

The crimson receded from his face, leaving it pale. 
His eyes were appealing. They had a kind of timid look 
that struck Madeline even in her anger. There was 
something bo3dsh about him then. He took a step for- 
ward and reached out with his hand open-palmed in a 
gesture that was humble, yet held a certain dignity. 

“But listen. Never mind now what you — you think 
about me. There’s a good reason — ” 

“I have no wish to hear your reason.” 

“But you ought to,” he persisted. 

“Sir!” 

Stewart underwent another swift change. He started 
violently. A dark tide shaded his face and a glitter 
leaped to his eyes. He took two long strides — loomed 
over her. 

“I’m not thinking about m5^elf.” he thundered. 
“Will you listen?” 

“No,” she replied; and there was freezing hauteur in 
her voice. With a slight gesture of dismissal, unmistak- 
able in its finality, she turned her back upon him. Then 
she joined her guests. 

Stewart stood perfectly motionless. Then slowly he 
began to lift his right hand in which he held his sombrero. 
He swept it up and up, high over his head. His tall form 


270 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

towered. With fierce suddenness he flung his sombrero 
down. He leaped at his black horse and dragged him 
to where his saddle lay. With one pitch he tossed the 
saddle upon the horse’s back. His strong hands flashed 
at girths and straps. Every action was swift, decisive, 
fierce. Bounding for his bridle, which hung over a bush, 
he ran against a cowboy who awkwardly tried to avoid 
the onslaught. 

“Get out of my way!” he yelled. 

Then with the same savage haste he adjusted the bridle 
on his horse. 

“Mebbe you better hold on a minnit. Gene, ole feller,” 
said Monty Price. 

“Monty, do you want me to brain you?” said Stewart, 
with the short, hard ring in his voice. 

“Now, considerin’ the high class of my brains, I oughter 
be real careful to keep ’em,” replied Monty. “You can 
betcher life. Gene, I ain’t goin’ to git in front of you. 
But I jest says — Listen!” 

Stewart raised his dark face. Everybody listened. 
And everybody heard the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs. 
The sun had set, but the park was light. Nels appeared 
down the trail, and his horse was running. In another 
moment he was in the circle, pulling his bay back to a 
sliding halt. He leaped off abreast of Stewart. 

Madeline saw and felt a difference in Nels’s presence. 

“What’s up, Gene?” he queried, sharply. 

“ I’m leaving camp,” replied Stewart, thickly. His black 
horse began to stamp as Stewart grasped bridle and mane 
and kicked the stirrup round. 

Nels’s long arm shot out, and his hand fell upon Stewart, 
holding him down. 

“Shore I’m sorry,” said Nels, slowly. “Then you was 
goin’ to hit the trail?” 

“lam going to. Let go, Nels.” 

“Shore you ain’t goin’. Gene?” 

“Let go, damn you!” cried Stewart, as he wrestled free. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Nels, lifting his hand again. 


BONITA 


271 


‘^Man! Don’t touch me!” 

Nels stepped back instantly. He seemed to become 
aware of Stewart’s white, wild passion. Again Stewart 
moved to mount. 

“Nels, don’t make me forget we’ve been friends,” he 
said. 

“Shore I ain’t fergettin’,” replied Nels. “An’ I resign 
my job right here an’ now!” 

His strange speech checked the mounting cowboy. 
Stewart stepped down from the stirrup. Then their hard 
faces were still and cold while their eyes locked glances. 

Madeline was as much startled by Nels’s speech as 
Stewart. Quick to note a change in these men, she now 
sensed one that was unfathomable. 

“Resign?” questioned Stewart. 

“Shore. What ’d you think I’d do imder circumstances 
sich as has come up?” 

“But see here, Nels, I won’t stand for it.” 

“You’re not my boss no more, an’ I ain’t beholdin’ to 
Miss Hammond, neither. I’m my own boss, an’ I’ll do 
as I please. Sabe, sehor?” 

Nels’s words were at variance with the meaning in his 
face. 

“Gene, you sent me on a little scout down in the moun- 
tains, didn’t you?” he continued. 

“Yes, I did,” replied Stewart, with a new sharpness in 
his voice. 

“ Wal, shore you was so good an’ right in your figgerin’, 
as opposed to mine, that I’m sick with admirin’ of you. 
If you hedn’t sent me — wal, I’m reckonin’ somethin’ 
might hev happened. As it is we’re shore up against a 
hell of a proposition!” 

How significant was the effect of his words upon all 
the cowboys ! Stewart made a fierce and violent motion, 
terrible where his other motions had been but passionate. 
Monty leaped straight up into the air in a singular action 
as suggestive of surprise as it was of wild acceptance of 
menace. Like a stalking giant Nick Steele strode over 


272 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

to Nels and Stewart. The other cowboys rose silently, 
without a word. 

Madeline and her guests, in a little group, watched and 
listened, unable to divine what all this strange talk and 
action meant. 

“Hold on, Nels, they.don’t need to hear it,’’ said Stew- 
art, hoarsely, as he waved a hand toward Madeline’s 
silent group. 

“ Wal, I’m sorry, but I reckon they’d as well know fust 
as last. Mebbe thet yearnin’ wish of Miss Helen’s fer 
somethin’ to happen will come true. Shore I — ” 

“Cut out the joshin’,” rang out Monty’s strident voice. 

It had as decided an effect as any preceding words or 
action. Perhaps it was the last thing needed to trans- 
form these men, doing unaccustomed duty as escorts of 
beautiful women, to their natural state as men of the wild. 

“Tell us what’s what,’’ said Stewart, cool and grim. 

“Don Carlos an’ his guerrillas are campin’ on the trails 
thet lead up here. They’ve got them trails blocked. By 
to-morrer they’d hed us corralled. Mebbe they meant to 
surprise us. He’s got a lot of Greasers an’ outlaws. 
They’re well armed. Now what do they mean? You-all 
can figger it out to suit yourselves. Mebbe the Don 
wants to pay a sociable call on our ladies. Mebbe his 
gang is some hungry, as usual. Mebbe they want to 
steal a few bosses, or anythin’ they can lay hands on. 
Mebbe they mean wuss, too. Now my idee is this, an’ 
mebbe it’s wrong. I long since separated from love with 
Greasers. Thet black-faced Don Carlos has got a deep 
game. Thet two-bit of a revolution is hevin’ hard times. 
The rebels want American intervention. They’d stretch 
any point to make trouble. We’re only ten miles from 
the border. Suppose them guerrillas got our crowd across 
thet border? The U. S. cavalry would f oiler. You-all 
know what thet ’d mean. Mebbe Don Carlos’s mind 
works thet way. Mebbe it don’t. I reckon we’ll know 
soon. An’ now, Stewart, whatever the Don’s game is, 
shore you’re the man to outfigger him. Mebbe it’s just 


BONITA 


273 


as well you’re good an’ mad about somethin’. An’ I 
resign my job because I want to feel unbeholdin’ to 
anybody. Shore it struck me long since thet the old 
days hed come back fer a little spell, an’ there I was 
trailin’ a promise not to hurt any Greaser.” 


DON CARLOS 


S TEWART took Nels, Monty, and Nick Steele aside 
out of earshot, and they evidently entered upon an 
earnest colloquy. Presently the other cowboys were 
called. They all talked more or less, but the deep voice 
of Stewart predominated over the others. Then the con- 
sultation broke up, and the cowboys scattered. 

“Rustle, you Indians!” ordered Stewart. 

The ensuing scene of action was not reassuring to Made- 
line and her friends. They were quiet, awaiting some one 
to tell them what to do. At the offset the cowboys ap- 
peared to have forgotten Madeline. Some of them ran 
off into the woods, others into the open, grassy places, 
where they rounded up the horses and burros. Several 
cowboys spread tarpaulins upon the ground and began 
to select and roll small packs, evidently for hurried travel. 
Nels mounted his horse to ride down the trail. Monty 
and Nick Steele went off into the grove, leading their 
horses. Stewart climbed up a steep jumble of stone be- 
tween two sections of low, cracked cliff back of the camp. 

Castleton offered to help the packers, and was curtly 
told he would be in the way. Madeline’s friends all im- 
portuned her: Was there real danger? Were the guerrillas 
coming? Would a start be made at once for the ranch? 
Why had the cowboys suddenly become so different? 
Madeline answered as best she could; but her replies were 
only conjecture, and modified to allay the fears of her 
guests. Helen was in a white glow of excitement. 

Soon cowboys appeared riding barebacked horses, driv- 
ing in others and the burros. Some of these horses were 
taken away and evidently hidden in deep recesses between 


DON CARLOS 


275 


the crags. The string of burros were packed and sent 
off down the trail in charge of a cowboy. Nick Steele and 
Monty returned. Then Stewart appeared, clambering 
down the break between the cliffs. 

His next move was to order all the baggage belonging 
to Madeline and her guests taken up the cliff. This was 
strenuous toil, requiring the need of lassoes to haul up 
the effects. 

“Get ready to climb,” said Stewart, turning to Made- 
line’s party. 

“Where?” asked Helen. 

He waved his hand at the ascent to be made. Exclama- 
tions of dismay followed his gesture. 

“Mr. Stewart, is there danger?” asked Dorothy; and 
her voice trembled. 

This was the question Madeline had upon her lips to 
ask Stewart, but she could not speak it. 

“No, there’s no danger,” replied Stewart, “but we’re 
taking precautions we all agreed on as best.” 

Dorothy whispered that she believed Stewart lied. 
Castleton asked another question, and then Harvey fol- 
lowed suit. Mrs. Beck made a timid query. 

“Please keep quiet and do as you’re told,” said Stewart, 
bluntly, 

At this juncture, when the last of the baggage was being 
hauled up the cliff, Monty approached Madeline and re- 
moved his sombrero. His black face seemed the same, 
yet this was a vastly changed Monty. 

“Miss Hammond, I’m givin’ notice I resign my job,” 
he said. 

“ Monty ! What do you mean ? What does Nels mean 
now, when danger threatens?” 

“We jest quit. Thet’s all,” replied Monty, tersely. 
He was stem and somber; he could not stand still; his 
eyes roved everywhere. 

Castleton jiunped up from the log where he had been 
sitting, and his face was very red. 

“Mr. Price, does all this blooming fuss mean we are 


276 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

to be robbed or attacked or abducted by a lot of ragamuffin 
guerrillas?” 

“YouVe called the bet.” 

Dorothy turned a very pale face toward Monty. 

“Mr. Price, you wouldn’t — you couldn’t desert us now? 
You and Mr. Nels — ” 

“Desert you?” asked Monty, blankly. 

“Yes, desert us. Leave us when we may need you so 
much, with something dreadful coming.” 

Monty uttered a short, hard laugh as he bent a strange 
look upon the girl. 

“Me an’ Nels is purty much scared, an’ we’re goin’ to 
slope. Miss Dorothy, bein’ as we’ve rustled round so 
much, it sorta hurts us to see nice young girls dragged off 
by the hair.” 

Dorothy uttered a little cry and then became hysterical. 
Castleton for once was fully aroused. 

‘ ‘ By Gad ! Y ou and yom partner are a couple of bloom- 
ing cowards. Where now is that courage you boasted of ?’ ’ 

Monty’s dark face expressed extreme sarcasm. 

“Dook, in my time I’ve seen some bright fellers, but 
you take the cake. It’s most marvelous how bright you 
are. Figger’n’ me an’ Nels so correct. Say, Dook, if 
you don’t git rustled off to Mexico an’ roped to a cactus- 
bush you’ll hev a swell story fer your English chums. 
Bah Jove! You’ll tell ’em how you seen two old-time 
gun-men run like scared jack-rabbits from a lot of Greasers. 
Like hell you will I Unless you lie like the time yoi^ told 
about proddin’ the lion. That there story alius — ” 

“ Monty, shut up!” yelled Stewart, as he came hurriedly 
up. Then Monty slouched away, cursing to himself. 

Madeline and Helen, assisted by Castleton, worked 
over Dorothy, and with some difficulty quieted her. 
Stewart passed several times without noticing them, and 
Monty, who had been so ridiculously eager to pay every 
little attention to Dorothy, did not see her at all. Rude 
it seemed; in Monty’s case more than that. Madeline 
hardly knew what to make of it. 


DON CARLOS 


27^ 


Stewart directed cowboys to go to the head of the open 
place in the cliff and let down lassoes. Then, with little 
waste of words, he urged the women toward this rough 
ladder of stones. 

“We want to hide you,” he said, when they demurred. 
“ If the guerrillas come we’ll tell them you’ve all gone down 
to the ranch. If we have to fight you’ll be safe up there.” 

Helen stepped boldly forward and let Stewart put the 
loop of a lasso round her and tighten it. He waved his 
hand to the cowboys above. 

“Just walk up, now,” he directed Helen. 

It proved to the watchers to be an easy, safe, and rapid 
means of scaling the steep passage. The men climbed up 
without assistance. Mrs. Beck, as usual, had hysteria; 
she half walked and was half dragged up. Stewart sup- 
ported Dorothy with one arm, while with the other he 
held to the lasso. Ambrose had to carry Christine. The 
Mexican women required no assistance. Edith Wayne 
and Madeline climbed last; and, once up, Madeline saw a 
narrow bench, thick with shrubs, and overshadowed by 
huge, leaning crags. There were holes in the rock, and 
dark fissures leading back. It was a rough, wild place. 
Tarpaulins and bedding were then hauled up, and food 
and water. The cowboys spread comfortable beds in 
several of the caves, and told Madeline and her friends 
to be as quiet as possible, not to make a light, and to sleep 
dressed, ready for travel at a moment’s notice. 

After the cowboys had gone down it was not a cheerful 
group left there in the darkening twilight. Castleton 
prevailed upon them to eat. 

“This is simply great,” whispered Helen. 

“Oh, it’s awful!” moaned Dorothy. “It’s your fault, 
Helen. You prayed for something to happen.” 

“ I believe it’s a horrid trick those cowboys are playing,” 
said Mrs. Beck. 

Madeline assured her friends that no trick was being 
played upon them, and that she deplored the discomfort 
and distress, but felt no real alarm. She was more in- 


278 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

dined to evasive kindness here than to sincerity, for she 
had a decided uneasiness. The swift change in the man- 
ner and looks of her cowboys had been a shock to her. 
The last glance she had of Stewart’s face, then stem, al- 
most sad, and haggard with worry, remained to augment 
her foreboding. 

Darkness appeared to drop swiftly down; the coyotes 
began their haunting, mournful howls ; the stars showed 
and grew brighter; the wind moaned through the tips of 
the pines. Castleton was restless. He walked to and fro 
before the overhanging shelf of rock, where his compan- 
ions sat lamenting, and presently he went out to the ledge 
of the bench. The cowboys below had built a fire, and 
the light from it rose in a huge, fan-shaped glow. Castle- 
ton’s little figure stood out black against this light. Curi- 
ous and anxious also, Madeline joined him and peered 
down from the cliff. The distance was short, and oc- 
casionally she could distinguish a word spoken by the 
cowboys. They were unconcernedly cooking and eating. 
She marked the absence of Stewart, and mentioned it to 
Castleton. Silently Castleton pointed almost straight 
down, and there in the gloom stood Stewart, with the two 
stag-hounds at his feet. 

Presently Nick Steele silenced the camp-fire circle by 
raising a warning hand. The cowboys bent their heads, 
listening. Madeline listened with all her might. She 
heard one of the hounds whine, then the faint beat of 
horse’s hoofs. Nick spoke again and turned to his sup- 
per, and the other men seemed to slacken in attention. 
The beat of hoofs grew louder, entered the grove, then 
the circle of light. The rider was Nels. He dis- 
mounted, and the sound of his low voice just reached 
Madeline. 

“Gene, it’s Nels. Somethin’ doin’,” Madeline heard 
one of the cowboys call, softly. 

“Send him over,” replied Stewart. 

Nels stalked away from the fire. 

“ See here, Nels, the boys are all right, but I don’t want 


DON CARLOS 


27Q 


them to know everything about this mix-up,*^ said Stewart, 
as Nels came up. “Did you find the girl?” 

Madeline guessed that Stewart referred to the Mexican 
girl Bonita. 

“No. But I met” — Madeline did not catch the name 
— “an’ he was wild. He was with a forest-ranger. An’ 
they said Pat Hawe had trailed her an’ was takin’ her 
down under arrest.” 

Stewart muttered deep under his breath, evidently 
cursing. 

“Wonder why he didn’t come on up here?” he queried, 
presently. “He can see a trail.” 

“Wal, Gene, Pat knowed you was here all right, fer 
thet ranger said Pat hed wind of the guerrillas, an’ Pat 
said if Don Carlos didn’t kill you — which he hoped he’d 
do — then it ’d be time enough to put you in jail when you 
come down.” 

“He’s dead set to arrest me, Nels.” 

“An’ he’ll do it, like the old lady who kept tavern out 
West. Gene, the reason thet red-faced coyote didn’t 
trail you up here is because he’s scared. He alius was 
scared of you. But I reckon he’s shore scared to death 
of me an’ Monty.” 

“Well, we’ll take Pat in his turn. The thing now is, 
when will that Greaser stalk us, and what ’ll we do when 
he comes?” 

“My boy, there’s only one way to handle a Greaser. 
I shore told you thet. He means rough toward us. He’ll 
come smilin’ up, all soci’ble like, insinuatin’ an’ sweeter ’n 
a woman. But he’s treacherous; he’s wuss than an Ind- 
ian. An’, Gene, we know for a positive fact how his 
gang hev been operatin’ between these hills an’ Agua 
Prieta. They’re no nervy gang of outlaws like we used 
to hev. But they’re plumb bad. They’ve raided and 
murdered through the San Luis Pass an’ Guadalupe 
Canon. They’ve murdered women, an’ wuss than thet, 
both north an’ south of Agua Prieta. Mebbe the U. S. 
cavalry don’t know it, an’ the good old States; but we. 


280 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


you an’ me an’ Monty an’ Nick, we know it. We know jest 
about what thet rebel war down there amounts to. It’s 
guerrilla war, an’ shore some harvest*time fer a lot of cheap 
thieves an’ outcasts.” 

“Oh, you’re right, Nels. I’m not disputing that,” 
replied Stewart. “If it wasn’t for Miss Hammond and 
the other women, I’d rather enjoy seeing you and Monty 
open up on that bunch. I’m thinking j;’d be glad to meet 
Don Carlos. But Miss Hammond! Why, Nels, such a 
woman as she is would never recover from the sight of real 
gtm-play, let alone any stunts with a rope. These Eastern 
women are different. I’m not belittling our Western 
women. It’s in the blood. Miss Hammond is — is — ” 

“Shore she is,” interrupted Nels; “but she’s got a 
damn sight more spunk than you think she has. Gene 
Stewart. I’m no thick-skulled cow. I’d hate somethin’ 
powerful to hev Miss Hammond see any rough work, let 
alone me an’ Monty startin’ somethin’. An’ me an’ 
Monty ’ll stick to you. Gene, as long as seems reasonable. 
Mind, ole feller, beggin’ your pardon, you’re shore stuck 
on Miss Hammond, an’ over-tender not to hurt her feel- 
in’s or make her sick by lettin’ some blood. We’re in bad 
here, an’ mebbe we’ll hev to fight. Sahe, senor? Wal, if 
we do you can jest gamble thet Miss Hammond ’ll be 
game. An’ I’ll bet you a million pesos thet if you got 
goin’ onct, an’ she seen you as I’ve seen you — wal, I know 
what she’d think of you. This old world ’ain’t changed 
much. Some women may be white-skinned an’ soft- 
eyed an’ sweet-voiced an’ high-souled, but they all like 
to see a man 1 Gene, here’s your game. Let Don Carlos 
come along. Be civil. If he an’ his gang are hungry, 
feed ’em. Take even a little overbearin’ Greaser talk. 
Be blind if he wants his gang to steal somethin’. Let 
him think the women hev mosied down to the ranch. 
But if he says you’re lyin’ — if he as much as looks round 
to see the women — jest jump him same as you jumped Pat 
Hawe. Me an’ Monty ’ll hang back fer thet, an’ if your 
strong bluff don’t go through, if the Don’s gang even 


DON CARLOS 


281 

thinks of flashin’ guns, then we’ll open up. An’ all I got 
to say is if them Greasers stand fer real gun-play they’ll 
be the fust I ever seen.” 

“Nels, there are white men in that gang,” said Stewart. 

“ Shore. But me an’ Monty ’ll be thinkin’ of thet. If 
they start anythin’ it ’ll hev to be shore quick.” 

“All right, Nels, old friend, and thanks,” replied Stewart. 

Nels returned to the camp-fire, and Stewart resumed his 
silent guard. 

Madeline led Castleton away from the brink of the 
wall. 

“By Jove! Cowboys are blooming strange folk!” he 
exclaimed. “They are not what they pretend to be.” 

“Indeed, you are right,” replied Madeline. “I cannot 
imderstand them. Come, let us tell the others that Nels 
and Monty were only talking and do not intend to leave 
us. Dorothy, at least, will be less frightened if she 
knows.” 

Dorothy was somewhat comforted. The others, how- 
ever, complained of the cowboys’ singular behavior. 
More than once the idea was advanced that an elaborate 
trick had been concocted. Upon general discussion this 
idea gained ground. Madeline did not combat it, be- 
cause she saw it tended to a less perturbed condition of 
mind among her guests. Castleton for once proved that 
he was not absolutely obtuse, and helped along the idea. 

They sat talking in low voices until a late hour. The 
incident now began to take on the nature of Helen’s 
long-yeamed-for adventure. Some of the party even 
grew merry in a subdued way. Then, gradually, one by 
one they tired and went to bed. Helen vowed she could 
not sleep in a place where there were bats and crawling 
things. Madeline fancied, however, that they all went 
to sleep while she lay wide-eyed, staring up at the black 
bulge of overhanging rock and beyond the starry sky. 

To keep from thinking of Stewart and the burning anger 
he had caused her to feel for herself, Madeline tried to 
keep her mind on other things. But thought of him re- 


282 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


curred, and each time there was a hot commotion in her 
breast hard to stifle. Intelligent reasoning seemed out of 
her power. In the daylight it had been possible for her 
to be oblivious to Stewart’s deceit after the moment of its 
realization. At night, however, in the strange silence and 
hovering shadows of gloom, with the speaking stars seem- 
ing to call to her, with the moan of the wind in the pines, 
and the melancholy mourn of coyotes in the distance, she 
was not able to govern her thought and emotion. The 
day was practical, cold; the night was strange and tense. 
In the darkness she had fancies wholly unknown to her 
in the bright light of the sun. She battled with a haunt- 
ing thought. She had inadvertently heard Nels’s con- 
versation with Stewart ; she had listened, hoping to hear 
some good news or to hear the worst; she had learned 
both, and, moreover, enlightenment on one point of Stew- 
art’s complex motives. He wished to spare her any sight 
that might offend, frighten, or disgust her. Yet this 
Stewart, who showed a fineness of feeling that might 
have been wanting even in Boyd Harvey, maintained a 
secret rendezvous with that pretty, abandoned Bonita. 
Here always the hot shame, like a live, stinging, internal 
fire, abruptly ended Madeline’s thought. It was intol- 
erable, and it was the more so because she could neither 
control nor understand it. The hours wore on, and at 
length, as the stars began to pale and there was no sound 
whatever, she fell asleep. 

She was called out of her slumber. Day had broken 
bright and cool. The sun was still below the eastern 
crags. Ambrose, with several other cowboys, had brought 
up buckets of spring-water, and hot coffee and cakes. 
Madeline’s party appeared to be none the worse for the 
night’s experience. Indeed, the meager breakfast might 
have been as merrily partaken of as it was hungrily had 
not Ambrose enjoined silence. 

“They’re expectin’ company down below,” he said. 

This information and the summary manner in which 
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THE CLATTER OF HOOFS STOPPED BEFORE THE DOOR 







DON CARLOS 


283 

shelves of rock caused a recurrence of anxiety. Made- 
line insisted on not going beyond a projection of cliff 
from which she could see directly down into the camp. 
As the vantage-point was one affording concealment, Am- 
brose consented, but he placed the frightened Christine 
near Madeline and remained there himself. 

“Ambrose, do you really think the guerrillas will come?” 
asked Madeline. 

“Sure. We know. Nels just rode in and said they were 
on their way up. Miss Hammond, can I trust you? You 
won't let out a squeal if there’s a fight down there? 
Stewart told me to hide you out of sight or keep you 
from lookin’.” 

“I promise not to make any noise,” replied Madeline. 

Madeline arranged her coat so that she could lie upon 
it, and settled down to wait developments. There came 
a slight rattling of stones in the rear. She turned to see 
Helen sliding down a bank with a perplexed and troubled 
cowboy. Helen came stooping low to where Madeline 
lay and said: “I am going to see what happens, if I die 
i in the attempt! I can stand it if you can.” She was 
pale and big-eyed. Ambrose promptly swore at the cow- 
boy who had let her get away from him. “Take a half- 
hitch on her yourself an’ see where you end up,” replied 
the fellow, and disappeared in the jumble of rocks. Am- 
brose, finding words useless, sternly and heroically pre- 
I pared to carry Helen back to the others. He laid hold of 
' her. In a fury, with eyes blazing, Helen whispered: 

I “Let go of me! Majesty, what does this fool mean?” 

j Madeline laughed. She knew Helen, and had marked 

I the whisper, when ordinarily Helen would have spoken 
imperiously, and not low. Madeline explained to her the 
exigency of the situation. “I might run, but I’ll never 
scream,” said Helen. With that Ambrose had to be con- 
tent to let her stay. However, he found her a place 
somewhat farther back from Madeline’s position, where he 
said there was less danger of her being seen. Then he 
sternly bound her to silence, tarried a moment to comfort 


284 the light of WESTERN STARS 

Christine, and returned to where Madeline lay concealed. 
He had been there scarcely a moment when he whispered: 

“I hear bosses. The guerrillas are cornin’.” 

Madeline’s hiding-place was well protected from pos- 
sible discovery from below. She could peep over a kind 
of parapet, through an opening in the tips of the pines 
that reached up to the cliff, and obtain a commanding 
view of the camp circle and its immediate surroundings. 
She could not, however, see far either to right or left of 
the camp, owing to the obstructing foliage. Presently 
the sound of horses’ hoofs quickened the beat of her pulse 
and caused her to turn keener gaze upon the cowboys 
below. 

Although she had some inkling of the course Stewart 
and his men were to pursue, she was not by any means 
prepared for the indifference she saw. Frank was asleep, 
or pretended to be. Three cowboys were lazily and un- 
concernedly attending to camp-fire duties, such as baking 
biscuits, watching the oven's, and washing tins and pots. 
The elaborate set of aluminum plates, cups, etc., together 
with the other camp fixtures that had done service for 
Madeline’s party, had disappeared. Nick Steele sat with 
his back to a log, smoking his pipe. Another cowboy had 
just brought the horses closer into camp, where they 
stood waiting to be saddled. Nels appeared to be fussing 
over a pack. Stewart was rolling a cigarette. Monty 
had apparently nothing to do for the present except 
whistle, which he was doing much more loudly than 
melodiously. The whole ensemble gave an impression of 
careless indifference. 

The sound of horses’ hoofs grew louder and slowed its 
beat. One of the cowboys pointed down the trail, toward 
which several of his comrades turned their heads for a 
moment, then went on with their occupations. 

Presently a shaggy, dusty horse bearing a lean, ragged, 
dark rider rode into camp and halted. Another followed, 
and another. Horses with Mexican riders came in single 
file and stopped behind the leader. 


DON CARLOS 


285 

The cowboys looked up, and the guerrillas looked down. 

^'Buenos dias, senor,” ceremoniously said the foremost 
guerrilla. 

By straining her ears Madeline heard that voice, and 
she recognized it as belonging to Don Carlos. His grace- 
ful bow to Stewart was also familiar. Otherwise she would 
never have recognized the former elegant vaquero in this 
uncouth, roughly dressed Mexican. 

Stewart answered the greeting in Spanish, and, waving 
his hand toward the camp-fire, added in English, “Get 
down and eat.” 

The guerrillas were anything but slow in complying. 
They crowded to the fire, then spread in a little circle 
and squatted upon the ground, laying their weapons be- 
side them. In appearance they tallied with the band of 
guerrillas that had carried Madeline up into the foot- 
hills, only this band was larger and better armed. The 
men, moreover, were just as himgry and as wild and beg- 
garly. The cowboys were not cordial in their reception 
of this visit, but they were hospitable. The law of the 
desert had always been to give food and drink to way- 
faring men, whether lost or hunted or hunting. 

“There’s twenty-three in that outfit,” whispered Am- 
brose, “includin’ four white men. Pretty rummy outfit.” 

“They appear to be friendly enough,” whispered Made- 
line. 

“Things down there ain’t what they seem,” replied 
Ambrose. 

“Ambrose, tell me — explain to me. This is my op- 
portunity. As long as you will let me watch them, please 
let me know the — the real thing.” 

“Sure. But recollect, Miss Hammond, that Gene’ll 
give it to me good if he ever knows I let you look and 
told you what’s what. Well, decent-like Gene is seein’ 
them poor devils get a square meal. They’re only a lot 
of calf-thieves in this country. Across the border they’re 
bandits, some of them, the others just riffraff outlaws. 
That rebel bluff doesn’t go down with us. I’d have to 


286 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

see first before I’d believe them Greasers would fight. 
They’re a lot of hard-ridin’ thieves, and they’d steal a 
fellow’s blanket or tobacco. Gene thinks they’re after 
you ladies — to carry you off. But Gene — Oh, Gene’s 
some highfalutin in his ideas lately. Most of us boys 
think the guerrillas are out to rob — that’s all.” 

Whatever might have been the secret motive of Don 
Carlos and his men, they did not allow it to interfere with 
a hearty appreciation of a generous amount of food. 
Plainly, each individual ate all that he was able to eat at 
the time. They jabbered like a flock of parrots; some 
were even merry, in a kind of wild way. Then, as each 
and every one began to roll and smoke the inevitable 
cigarette of the Mexican, there was a subtle change in 
manner. They smoked and looked about the camp, off 
into the woods, up at the crags, and back at the leisurely 
cowboys. They had the air of men waiting for something. 

“Senor,” began Don Carlos, addressing Stewart. As 
he spoke he swept his sombrero to indicate the camp circle. 

Madeline could not distinguish his words, but his gesture 
plainly indicated a question in regard to the rest of the 
camping party. Stewart’s reply and the wave of his 
hand down the trail meant that his party had gone home. 
Stewart turned to some task, and the guerrilla leader 
quietly smoked. He looked cunning and thoughtful. 
His men gradually began to manifest a restlessness, 
noticeable in the absence of former languor and slow 
puffing of cigarette smoke. Presently a big-boned man 
with a bullet head and a blistered red face of evil coarse- 
ness got up and threw away his cigarette. He was an 
American. 

“Hey, cull,” he called in loud voice, “ain’t ye goin’ to 
cough up a drink?” 

“ My boys don’t carry liquor on the trail,” replied Stew- 
art. He turned now to face the guerrillas. 

“Haw, haw! I heerd over in Rodeo thet ye was git- 
tin’ to be shore some fer temperance,” said this fellow. 
“I hate to drink water, but I guess I’ve gotter do it.” 


DON CARLOS 


287 

He went to the spring, sprawled down to drink, and all 
of a sudden he thrust his arm down in the water to bring 
forth a basket. The cowboys in the hurry of packing had 
neglected to remove this basket; and it contained bottles 
of wine and liquors for Madeline’s guests. They had been 
submerged in the spring to keep them cold. The guerrilla 
fumbled with the lid, opened it, and then got up, uttering 
a loud roar of delight. 

Stewart made an almost imoerceptible motion, as if to 
leap forward; but he checked the impulse, and after a 
quick glance at Nels he said to the guerrilla: 

“Guess my party forgot that. You’re welcome to it.” 

Like bees the guerrillas swarmed around the lucky 
finder of the bottles. There was a babel of voices. The 
drink did not last long, and it served only to liberate 
the spirit of recklessness. The several white outlaws be- 
gan to prowl around the camp ; some of the Mexicans did 
hkewise; others waited, showing by their ill-concealed 
expectancy the nature of their thoughts. 

It was the demeanor of Stewart and his comrades that 
puzzled Madeline. Apparently they felt no anxiety 01 
even particular interest. Don Carlos, who had been 
covertly watching them, now made his scrutiny open, 
even aggressive. He looked from Stewart to Nels and 
Monty, and then to the other cowboys. While some of 
his men prowled around the others watched him, and the 
waiting attitude had taken on something sinister. The 
guerrilla leader seemed undecided, but not in any sense 
puzzled. When he turned his cunning face upon Nels and 
Monty he had the manner of a man in whom decision 
was lacking. 

In her growing excitement Madeline had not clearly 
heard Ambrose’s low whispers and she made an effort 
to distract some of her attention from those below to the 
cowboy crouching beside her. 

The quality, the note of Ambrose’s whisper had changed. 
It had a slight sibilant sound. 

“Don’t be mad if sudden-like I clap my hands over 


288 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 


your eyes, Miss Hammond,'' he was saying. “Somethin's 
brewin' below. I never seen Gene so cool. That’s a 
dangerous sign in him. And look, see how the boys are 
workin’ together! Oh, it’s slow and accident-like, but I 
know it’s sure not accident. That foxy Greaser knows, 
too. But maybe his men don’t. If they are wise they 
haven’t sense enough to care. The Don, though — he’s 
worried. He’s not payin’ so much attention to Gene, 
either. It’s Nels and Monty he’s watchin’. And well 
he need do it I There, Nick and Frank have settled down 
on that log with Booly. They don’t seem to be packin' 
guns. But look how heavy their vests hang. A gun in 
each side I Those boys can pull a gun and flop over that 
log quicker than you can think. Do you notice how Nels 
and Monty and Gene are square between them guerrillas 
and the trail up here? It doesn’t seem on purpose, but 
it is. Look at Nels and Monty. How quiet they are 
confabbin' together, payin’ no attention to the guerrillas. 
I see Monty look at Gene, then I see Nels look at Gene. 
Well, it’s up to Gene. And they’re goin’ to back him. I 
reckon. Miss Hammond, there’d be dead Greasers round 
that camp long ago if Nels and Monty were foot-loose. 
They’re beholdin’ to Gene. That’s plain. And, Lord! 
how it tickles me to watch them! Both packin’ two 
forty-fives, butts swingin’ clear. There’s twenty-four 
shots in them four guns And there’s twenty-three 
guerrillas. If Nels and Monty ever throw guns at that 
close range, why, before you’d know what was up there’d 
be a pile of Greasers. There! Stewart said something 
to the Don. I wonder what. I’ll gamble it was something 
to get the Don’s outfit all close together. Sure ! Greasers 
have no sense. But them white guerrillas, they’re lookin’ 
some dubious. Whatever’s cornin’ off will come soon, 
you can bet. I wish I was down there. But maybe it 
won’t come to a scrap. Stewart’s set on avoidin' that. 
He’s a wonderful chap to get his way. Lord, though, I’d 
like to see him go after that overbearin’ Greaser! See! 
the Don can’t stand prosperity. All this strange behavior 


DON CARLOS 


289 

of cowboys is beyond his pulque-soaked brains. Then 
he’s a Greaser. If Gene doesn’t knock him on the head 
presently he’ll begin to get over his scare, even of Nels 
and Monty. But Gene ’ll pick out the right time. And 
I’m gettin’ nervous. I want somethin’ to start. Never 
saw Nels in but one fight, then he just shot a Greaser’s 
arm off for tryin’ to draw on him. But I’ve heard all 
about him. And Monty ! Monty’s the real old-fashioned 
gun-man. Why, none of them stories, them lies he told 
to entertain the Englishman, was a marker to what Monty 
has done. What I don’t understand is how Monty keeps 
so quiet and easy and peaceful-like. That’s not his way, 
with such an outfit lookin’ for trouble. 0-ha ! Now for 
the grand bluff. Looks like no fight at all!” 

The guerrilla leader had ceased his restless steps and 
glances, and turned to Stewart with something of bold 
resolution in his aspect. 

'' Gracias y senor,” he said. ''Adios'* He swept his 
sombrero in the direction of the trail leading down the 
mountain to the ranch; and as he completed the gesture 
a smile, crafty and jeering, crossed his swarthy face. 

Ambrose whispered so low that Madeline scarcely heard 
him. “If the Greaser goes that way he’ll find our horses 
and get wise to the trick. Oh, he’s wise now! But I’ll 
gamble he never even starts on that trail.” 

Neither hurriedly nor guardedly Stewart rose out of his 
leaning posture and took a couple of long strides toward 
Don Carlos. 

“Go back the way you came,” he fairly yelled; and his 
voice had the ring of a bugle. 

Ambrose nudged Madeline; his whisper was tense and 
rapid: “ Don’t miss nothin’. Gene’s called him. What- 
ever ’s cornin’ off will be here quick as lightnin’. See! I 
guess maybe that Greaser don’t savvy good U. S. lingo. 
Look at that dirty yaller face turn green. Put one eye 
on Nels and Monty ! That’s great — just to see ’em. Just 
as quiet and easy. But oh, the difference! Bent and 
stiff — that me^ns every muscle is like a rawhide riata. 


290 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

They’re watchin’ with eyes that can see the workin's of 
them Greasers’ minds. Now there ain’t a hoss-hair be- 
tween them Greasers and hell!” 

Don Carlos gave Stewart one long malignant stare; 
then he threw back his head, swept up the sombrero, and 
his evil smile showed gleaming teeth. 

“Sehor — ”he began. 

With magnificent bound Stewart was upon him. The 
guerrilla’s cry was throttled in his throat. A fierce 
wrestling ensued, too> swift to see clearly; then heavy, 
sodden blows, and Don Carlos was beaten to the ground. 
Stewart leaped back. Then, crouching with his hands 
on the butts of guns at his hips, he yelled, he thundered 
at the guerrillas. He had been quicker than a panther, 
and now his voice was so terrible that it curdled Made- 
line’s blood, and the menace of deadly violence in his 
crouching position made her shut her eyes. But she had 
to open them. In that single instant Nels and Monty 
had leaped to Stewart’s side. B'oth were bent down, with 
hands on the butts of guns at tlieir hips. Nels’s piercing 
yell seemed to divide Monty’s roar of rage. Then they 
ceased, and echoes clapped from the crags. The silence of 
those three men crouching like 'tigers about to leap was 
more menacing than the nerve-racking yells. 

Then the guerrillas wavered and broke and ran for 
their horses. Don Carlos rolled over, rose, and staggered 
away, to be helped upon his mount. He looked back, his 
pale and bloody face that of a thwarted demon. The 
whole band got into action and were gone in a moment. 

“I knew it,” declared Ambrose. “Never seen a 
Greaser who could face gim-play. That was some warm. 
And Monty Price never flashed a gun! He’ll never get 
over that. I reckon, Miss Hammond, we’re some lucky 
to avoid trouble. Gene had his way, as you seen. We’ll 
be makin’ tracks for the ranch in about two shakes.” 

“Why?” whispered Madeline, breathlessly. She be- 
came conscious that she was weak and shaken. 

“Because the guerrillas sure will get their nerve back, 


DON CARLOS 


291 


and come sneakin’ on our trail or try to head us off by 
ambushin’,” replied Ambrose. “That’s their way. Other- 
wise three cowboys couldn’t bluff a whole gang like that. 
Gene knows the nature of Greasers. They’re white- 
livered. But I reckon we’re in more danger now than 
before, unless we get a good start down the motmtain. 
There! Gene’s callin’. Come! Hurry!” 

Helen had slipped down from her vantage-point, and 
therefore had not seen the last act in that little camp-fire 
drama. It seemed, however, that her desire for excite- 
ment was satisfied, for her face was pale and she trembled 
when she asked if the guerrillas were gone. 

“I didn’t see the finish, but those honible yells were 
enough for me.” 

Ambrose hurried the three women over the rough 
rocks, down the cliff. The cowboys below were saddling 
horses in haste. Evidently all the horses had been brought 
out of hiding. Swiftly, with regard only for life and limb, 
Madeline, Helen, and Christine were lowered by lassoes 
and half carried down to the level. By the time they 
were safely down the other members of the party appeared 
on the cliff above. They were in excellent spirits, ap- 
pearing to treat the matter as a huge joke. 

Ambrose put Christine on a horse and rode away 
through the pines; Frankie Slade did likewise with Helen. 
Stewart led Madeline’s horse up to her, helped her to 
mount, and spoke one stem word, “Wait!” Then as 
fast as one of the women reached the level she was put 
upon a horse and taken away by a cowboy escort. Few 
words were spoken. Haste seemed to be the great essen- 
tial. The horses were urged, and, once in the trail, spurred 
and led into a swift trot. One cowboy drove up four 
pack-horses, and these were hurriedly loaded with the 
party’s baggage. Castleton and his companions mounted, 
and galloped off to catch the others in the lead. This left 
Madeline behind with Stewart and Nels and Monty. 

“They’re goin’ to switch off at the holler thet heads 
near the trail a few miles down,” Nels was saying, as he 


292 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

tightened his saddle-girth. “Thet holler heads into a 
big canon. Once in thet, it ’ll be every man fer hisself. 
I reckon there won’t be anythin’ wuss than a rough ride.” 

Nels smiled reassuringly at Madeline, but he did not 
speak to her. Monty took her canteen and filled it at 
the spring and hung it over the pommel of her saddle. 
He put a couple of biscuits in the saddle-bag. 

‘‘ Don’t fergit to take a drink an’ a bite as you’re ridin’ 
along,” he said. "‘An’ don’t worry, Miss Majesty. 
Stewart ’ll be with you, an’ me an’ Nels hangin’ on the 
back-trail.” 

His somber t'nd sullen face did not change in its strange 
intensity, but the look in his eyes Madeline felt she would 
never forget. Left alone with these three men, now 
stripped of all pretense, she realized how fortune had 
favored her and what peril still himg in the balance. 
Stewart swung astride his big black, spurred him, and 
whistled. At the whistle Majesty jumped, and with 
swift canter followed Stewart. Madeline looked back to 
see Nels already up and Monty handing him a rifle. Then 
the pines hid her view. 

Once in the trail, Stewart’s horse broke into a gallop. 
Majesty changed his gait and kept at the black’s heels. 
Stewart called back a warning. The low, wide-spreading 
branches of trees might brush Madeline out of the saddle. 
Fast riding through the forest along a crooked, obstructed 
trail called forth all her alertness Likewise the stirring 
of her blood, always susceptible to the spirit and motion 
of a ride, let alone one of peril, now began to throb and 
bum away the worry, the dread, the coldness that had 
weighted her down. 

Before long Stewart wheeled at right angles off the trail 
and entered a hollow between two low bluffs. Madeline 
saw tracks in the open patches of ground. Here Stew- 
art’s horse took to a brisk walk. The hollow deepened, 
narrowed, became rocky, full of logs and bmsh. Made- 
line exerted all her keenness, and needed it, to keep close 
to Stewart. She did not think of him, nor her own safety. 


DON CARLOS 


293 


but of keeping Majesty close in the tracks of the black, 
of eluding the sharp spikes in the dead brush, of avoiding 
the treacherous loose stones. 

At last Madeline was brought to a dead halt by Stew- 
art and his horse blocking the trail. Looking up, she saw 
they were at the head of a canon that yawned beneath 
and widened its gray- walled, green-patched slopes down 
to a black forest of fir. The drab monotony of the foot- 
hills made contrast below the forest, and away in the 
distance, rosy and smoky, lay the desert. Retracting her 
gaze, Madeline saw pack-horses cross an open space a mile 
below, and she thought she saw the stag-hounds. Stew- 
art’s dark eyes searched the slopes high up along the craggy 
escarpments. Then he put the black to the descent. 

If there had been a trail left by the leading cowboys, 
Stewart did not follow it. He led off to the right, zig- 
zagging an intricate course through the roughest ground 
Madeline had ever ridden over. He crashed through 
cedars, threaded a tortuous way among boulders, made 
his horse slide down slanting banks of soft earth, picked 
a slow and cautious progress across weathered slopes of 
loose rock. Madeline followed, finding in this ride a tax 
on strength and judgment. On an ordinary horse she 
never could have kept in Stewart’s trail. It was dust and 
heat, a parching throat, that caused Madeline to think 
of time; and she was amazed to see the sun sloping to the 
west. Stewart never stopped; he never looked back; he 
never spoke. He must have heard the horse close behind 
him. Madeline remembered Monty’s advice about drink- 
ing and eating as she rode along. The worst of that rough 
travel came at the bottom of the canon. Dead cedars 
and brush and logs were easy to pass compared with the 
miles, it seemed, of loose boulders. The horses slipped 
and stumbled. Stewart proceeded here with exceeding 
care. At last, when the canon opened into a level forest 
of firs, the sun was setting red in the west. 

Stewart quickened the gait of his horse. After a mile 
or so of easy travel the ground again began to fall de- 


294 the light of western stars 

cidedly, sloping in numerous ridges, with draws between. 
Soon night shadowed the deeper gullies. Madeline was 
refreshed by the cooling of the air. 

Stewart traveled slowly now. The barks of coyotes 
seemed to startle him. Often he stopped to listen. And 
during one of those intervals the silence was broken by 
sharp rifle-shots. Madeline could not tell whether they 
were near or far, to right or left, behind or before. Evi- 
dently Stewart was both alarmed and baffled. He dis- 
mounted. He went cautiously forward to listen. Made- 
line fancied she heard a cry, low and far away. It was 
only that of a coyote, she convinced herself, yet it was so 
wailing, so htunan, that she shuddered. Stewart came 
back. He slipped the bridles of both horses, and he led 
them. Every few paces he stopped to listen. He changed 
his direction several times, and the last time he got among 
rough, rocky ridges. The iron shoes of the horses cracked 
on the rocks. That sound must have penetrated far into 
the forest. It perturbed Stewart, for he searched for 
softer ground. Meanwhile the shadows merged into 
darkness. The stars shone. The wind rose. Madeline 
believed hours passed. 

Stewart halted again. In the gloom Madeline discerned 
a log cabin, and beyond it pear-pointed dark trees pierc- 
ing the sky-line. She could just make out Stewart’s tall 
form as he leaned against his horse. Either he was listen- 
ing or debating what to do — perhaps both. Presently he 
went inside the cabin. Madeline heard the scratching 
of a match; then she saw a faint light. The cabin ap- 
peared to be deserted. Probably it was one of the many 
habitations belonging to prospectors and foresters who 
lived in the mountains. Stewart came out again. He 
walked around the horses, out into the gloom, then back 
to Madeline. For a long moment he stood as still as a 
statue and listened. Then she heard him mutter, ‘Tf 
we have to start quick I can ride bareback.” With that 
he took the saddle and blanket off his horse and carried 
them into the cabin. 


DON CARLOS 


295 

“Get off,” he said, in a low voice, as he stepped out of 
the door. 

He helped her down and led her inside, where again he 
struck a match. Madeline caught a glimpse of a rude 
fireplace and rough-hewn logs. Stewart’s blanket and 
saddle lay on the hard-packed earthen floor. 

“Rest a little,” he said. “I’m going into the woods 
a piece to listen. Gone only a minute or so.” 

Madeline had to feel round in the dark to locate the 
saddle and blanket. When she lay down it was with a 
grateful sense of ease and relief. As her body rested, 
however, her mind became the old thronging maze for 
sensation and thought. All day she had attended to the 
alert business of helping her horse. Now, what had al- 
ready happened, the night, the silence, the proximity of 
Stewart and his strange, stem caution, the possible hap- 
penings to her friends — all claimed their due share of her 
feeling. She went over them all with lightning swiftness 
of thought. She believed, and she was sure Stewart be- 
lieved, that her friends, owing to their quicker start down 
the mountain, had not been headed off in their travel by 
any of the things which had delayed Stewart. This con- 
viction lifted the suddenly returning dread from her 
breast ; and as for herself, somehow she had no fear. But 
she could not sleep ; she did not try to. 

Stewart’s soft steps sounded outside. His dark form 
loomed in the door. As he sat down Madeline heard the 
thump of a gun that he laid beside him on the sill; then 
the thump of another as he put that down, too. The 
sounds thrilled her. Stewart’s wide shoulders filled the 
door; his finely shaped head and strong, stem profile 
showed clearly in outline against the sky; the wind waved 
his hair. He turned his eai’ to that wind and listened. 
Motionless he sat for what to her seemed hours. 

Then the stirring memory of the day’s adventure, the 
feeling of the beauty of the night, and a strange, deep- 
seated, sweetly vague consciousness of happiness portend- 
ing, were all burned out in hot, pressing pain at the re- 


296 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

membrance of Stewart’s disgrace in her eyes. Something 
had changed within her so that what had been anger at 
herself was sorrow for him. He was such a splendid man. 
She could not feel the same; she knew her debt to him, 
yet she could not thank him, could not speak to him. She 
fought an unintelligible bitterness. 

Then she rested with closed eyes, and time seemed 
neither short nor long. When Stewart called her she 
opened her eyes to see the gray of dawn. She rose and 
stepped outside. The horses whinnied. In a moment 
she was in the saddle, aware of cramped muscles and a 
weariness of limbs. Stewart led off at a sharp trot into 
the fir forest. They came to a trail into which he turned. 
The horses traveled steadily; the descent grew less steep; 
the firs thinned out ; the gray gloom brightened. 

When Madeline rode out of the firs the sun had arisen 
and the foothills rolled beneath her; and at their edge, 
where the gray of valley began, she saw a dark patch that 
she knew was the ranch-house. 


297 


XX 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 



BOUT the middle of the forenoon of that day Made- 


line reached the ranch. Her guests had all arrived 
there late the night before, and wanted only her presence 
and the assurance of her well-being to consider the last of 
the camping trip a rare adventure. Likewise, they voted 
it the cowboys* masterpiece of a trick. Madeline’s de- 
lay, they averred, had been only a clever coup to give a 
final effect. She did not correct their impression, nor 
think it needful to state that she had been escorted home 
by only one cowboy. 

Her guests reported an arduous ride down the moun- 
tain, with only one incident to lend excitement. On the 
descent they had fallen in with Sheriff Hawe and several 
of his deputies, who were considerably under the influence 
of drink and very greatly enraged by the escape of the 
Mexican girl Bonita. Hawe had used insulting language 
to the ladies and, according to Ambrose, would have in- 
convenienced the party on some pretext or other if he had 
not been sharply silenced by the cowboys. 

Madeline’s guests were two days in recovering from the 
hard ride. On the third day they leisurely began to pre- 
pare for departure. This period was doubly trying for 
Madeline. She had her own physical need of rest, and, 
moreover, had to face a mental conflict that could scarcely 
be postponed further. Her sister and friends were kindly 
and earnestly persistent in their entreaties that she go 
back East with them. She desired to go. It was not 
going that mattered; it was how and when and under 


298 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

what circumstances she was to return that roused in her 
disturbing emotion. Before she went East she wanted 
to have fixed in mind her futiu*e relation to the ranch 
and the West. When the crucial hour arrived she found 
that the West had not claimed her yet. These old friends 
had warmed cold ties. 

It turned out, however, that there need be no hurry 
about making the decision. Madeline would have wel- 
comed any excuse to procrastinate; but, as it happened, 
a letter from Alfred made her departure out of the ques- 
tion for the present. He wrote that his trip to California 
had been very profitable, that he had a proposition for 
Madeline from a large cattle company, and, particularly, 
that he wanted to marry Florence soon after his arrival 
home and would bring a minister from Douglas for that 
purpose. 

Madeline went so far, however, as to promise Helen 
and her friends that she would go East soon, at the very 
latest by Thanksgiving. With that promise they were 
reluctantly content to say good-by to the ranch and to 
her. At the last moment there seemed a great likelihood 
of a hitch in plans for the first stage of that homeward 
journey. All of Madeline’s guests held up their hands, 
Western fashion, when Link Stevens appeared with the 
big white car. Link protested innocently, solemnly, that 
he would drive slowly and safely; but it was necessary for 
Madeline to guarantee Link’s word and to accompany 
them before they would enter the ar. At the station 
good-bys were spoken and repeated, and Madeline’s 
promise was exacted for the hundredth tme. 

Dorothy Coombs’s last words were: “Give my love to 
Monty Price. Tell him I’m — I’m lad he kissed me!” 

Helen’s eyes had a sweet, grave, yet mocking light as 
she said: 

“Majesty, bring Stewart with you when you come. 
He’ll be the rage.” 

Madeline treated the remark with the same merry 
lightness with which it was received by the others; but 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 299 

after the train had pulled out and she was on her way- 
home she remembered Helen’s words and looks with 
something almost amounting to a shock Any mention 
of Stewart, any thought of him, displeased her. 

“What did Helen mean?” mused Madeline. And she 
pondered. That mocking light in Helen’s eyes had been 
simply an ironical glint, a cynical gleam from that worldly 
experience so suspicious and tolerant in its wisdom. The 
sweet gravity of Helen’s look had been a deeper and more 
subtle thing. Madeline wanted to understand it, to di- 
vine in it a new relation between Helen and herself, some- 
thing fine and sisterly that might lead to love. The 
thought, however, revolving around a strange suggestion 
of Stewart, was poisoned at its inception, and she dis- 
missed it. 

Upon the drive in to the ranch, as she was passing the 
lower lake, she saw Stewart walking listlessly along the 
shore. When he became aware of the approach of the 
car he suddenly awakened from his aimless sauntering 
and disappeared quickly in the shade of the shrubbery. 
This was not by any means the first time Madeline had 
seen him avoid a possible meeting with her. Somehow the 
act had pained her, though affording her a relief. She 
did not want to meet him face to face. 

It was annoying for her to guess that Stillwell had 
something to say in Stewart’s defense. The old cattleman 
was evidently distressed. Several times he had tried to 
open a conversation with Madeline relating to Stewart; 
she had evaded him until the last time, when his per- 
sistence had brought a cold and final refusal to hear an- 
other word about the foreman. Stillwell had been crushed. 

As days passed Stewart remained at the ranch without 
his old faithfulness to his work. Madeline was not moved 
to a kinder frame of mind to see him wandering dejectedly 
around. It hurt her, and because it hurt her she grew 
all the harder. Then she could not help hearing snatches 
of conversation which strengthened her suspicions that 
Stewart was losing his grip on himself, that he would 


300 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

soon take the downward course again. Verification of 
her own suspicion made it a belief, and belief brought 
about a sharp conflict between her generosity and some 
feeling that she could not name. It was not a question 
of justice or mercy or sympathy. If a single word could 
have saved Stewart from sinking his splendid manhood 
into the brute she had recoiled from at Chiricahua, she 
would not have spoken it. She could not restore him to 
his former place in her regard; she really did not want 
him at the ranch at all. Once, considering in wonder her 
knowledge of men, she interrogated herself to see just 
why she could not overlook Stewart’s transgression. She 
never wanted to speak to him again, or see him, or think 
of him. In some way, through her interest in Stewart, 
she had come to feel for herself an inexplicable thing close 
to scorn. 

A telegram from Douglas, heralding the coming of Al- 
fred and a minister, put an end to Madeline’s brooding, 
and she shared something of Florence Kingsley’s excite- 
ment. The cowboys were as eager and gossipy as girls. 
It was arranged to have the wedding ceremony performed 
in Madeline’s great hall-chamber, and the dinner in the 
cool, flower-scented patio. 

Alfred and his minister arrived at the ranch in the big 
white car. They appeared considerably wind-blown. In 
fact, the minister was breathless, almost sightless, and 
certainly hatless. Alfred, used as he was to wind and 
speed , remarked that he did not wonder at Nels’s aversion 
to riding a fleeting cannon-ball. The imperturbable Link 
took off his cap and goggles and, consulting his watch, 
made his usual apologetic report to Madeline, deploring 
the fact that a teamster and a few stray cattle on the 
road had held him down to the manana time of only a 
mile a minute. ^ 

Arrangements for the wedding brought Alfred’s de- 
lighted approval. When he had learned all Florence and 
Madeline would tell him he expressed a desire to have 
the cowboys attend; and then he went on to talk about 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 301 

California, where he was going take Florence on a short 
trip. He was curiously interested to find out all about 
Madeline’s guests and what had happened to them. His 
keen glance at Madeline grew softer as she talked. 

“I breathe again,” he said, and laughed. “I was 
afraid. Well, I must have missed some sport. I can 
just fancy what Monty and Nels did to that Englishman. 
So you went up to the crags. That’s a wild place. I’m 
not surprised at guerrillas falling in with you up there. 
The crags were a famous rendezvous for Apaches — it’s 
near the border — almost inaccessible — good water and 
grass. I wonder what the U. S. cavalry would think if 
they knew these guerrillas crossed the border right under 
their noses. Well, it’s practically impossible to patrol 
some of that border-line. It’s desert, mountain, and 
canon, exceedingly wild and broken. I’m sorry to say 
that there seems to be more trouble in sight with these 
guerrillas than at any time heretofore. Orozco, the rebel 
leader, ' has failed to withstand Madero’s army. The 
Federals are occupying Chihuahua now, and are driving 
the rebels north. Orozco has broken up his army into 
guerrilla bands. They are moving north and west, in- 
tending to carry on guerrilla warfare in Sonora. I can’t 
say just how this will affect us here. But we’re too 
close to the border for comfort. These guerrillas are 
night-riding hawks; they can cross the border, raid us 
here, and get back the same night. Fighting, I imagine, 
will not be restricted to northern Mexico. With the 
revolution a failure the guerrillas will be more numerous, 
bolder, and hungrier. Unfortunately, we happen to be 
favorably situated for them down here in this wilderness 
comer of the state.” 

On the following day Alfred and Florence were married. 
Florence’s sister and several friends from El Cajon were 
present, besides Madeline, Stillwell, and his men. It was 
Alfred’s express wish that Stewart attend the ceremony. 
Madeline was amused when she noticed the painfully 
suppressed excitement of the cowboys. For them a 


302 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

wedding must have been an unusual and impressive event. 
She began to have a better understanding of the nature 
of it when they cast off restraint and pressed forward to 
kiss the bride. In all her life Madeline had never seen a 
bride kissed so much and so heartily, nor one so flushed 
and disheveled and happy. This indeed was a joyful 
occasion. There was nothing of the “effete East” about 
Alfred Hammond; he might have been a Westerner all 
his days. When Madeline managed to get through the 
press of cowboys to offer her congratulations Alfred gave 
her a bear hug and a kiss. This appeared to fascinate the 
cowboys. With shining eyes and faces aglow, with smil- 
ing, boyish boldness, they made a rush at Madeline. For 
one instant her heart leaped to her throat. They looked 
as if they could most shamelessly kiss and maul her. 
That little, ugly-faced, soft-eyed, rude, tender-hearted 
ruffian, Monty Price, was in the lead. He resembled a 
dragon actuated by sentiment. All at once Madeline’s 
instinctive antagonism to being touched by strange 
hands or lips battled with a real, warm, and fun-loving 
desire to let the cowboys work their will with her. But 
she saw Stewart hanging at the back of the crowd, and 
something — some fierce, dark expression of pain — amazed 
her, while it froze her desire to be kind. Then she did 
not know what change must have come to her face and 
bearing; but she saw Monty fall back sheepishly and 
the other cowboys draw aside to let her lead the way into 
the patio. 

The dinner began quietly enough with the cowboys 
divided between embarrassment and voracious appetites 
that they evidently feared to indulge. Wine, however, 
loosened their tongues, and when Stillwell got up to make 
the speech everybody seemed to expect of him they 
greeted him with a roar. 

Stillwell was now one huge, mountainous smile. He 
was so happy that he appeared on the verge of tears. He 
rambled on ecstatically till he came to raise his glass. 

“An’ now, girls an’ boys, let’s all drink to the bride 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 303 

an’ groom; to their sincere an’ lastin’ love; to their hap- 
piness an’ prosperity; to their good health an’ long life. 
Let’s drink to the unitin’ of the East with the West. No 
man full of red blood an’ the real breath of life could re- 
sist a Western girl an’ a good hoss an’ God’s free hand — 
that open country out there. So we claim A1 Hammond, 
an’ may we be true to him. An’, friends, I think it fittin’ 
that we drink to his sister an’ to our hopes. Heah’s to the 
lady we hope to make our Majesty! Heah’s to the man 
who’ll come ridin’ out of the West, a fine, big-hearted man 
with a fast hoss an’ a strong rope, an’ may he win an’ hold 
her! Come, friends, drink.” 

A heavy pound of horses’ hoofs and a yell outside ar- 
rested Stillwell’s voice and halted his hand in midair. 

The patio became as silent as an unoccupied room. 

Through the open doors and windows of Madeline’s 
chamber burst the sounds of horses stamping to a halt, 
then harsh speech of men, and a low cry of a woman in 
pain. 

Rapid steps crossed the porch, entered Madeline’s room. 
Nels appeared in the doorway. Madeline was surprised 
to see that he had not been at the dinner-table. She was 
disturbed at sight of his face. 

“Stewart, you’re wanted outdoors,” called Nels, blunt- 
ly. “Monty, you slope out here with me. You, Nick, 
an’ Stillwell — I reckon the rest of you hed better shut the 
doors an’ stay inside.” 

Nels disappeared. Quick as a cat Monty glided out. 
Madeline heard his soft, swift steps pass from her room 
into her office. He had left his guns there. Madeline 
trembled. She saw Stewart get up quietly and without 
any change of expression on his dark, sad face leave the 
patio. Nick Steele followed him. Stillwell dropped his 
wine-glass. As it broke, shivering the silence, his huge 
smile vanished. His face set into the old cragginess and 
the red slowly thickened into black. Stillwell went out 
and closed the door behind him. 

Then there was a blank silence. The enjoyment of the 


304 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

moment had been rudely disrupted. Madeline glanced 
down the lines of brown faces to see the pleasure fade into 
the old familiar hardness. 

“What’s wrong?’’ asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The 
change of mood had been too rapid for him. Suddenly 
he awakened, thoroughly aroused at the interruption. 
“I’m going to see who’s butted in here to spoil our dinner,” 
he said, and strode out. 

He returned before any one at the table had spoken 
or moved, and now the dull red of anger mottled his 
forehead. 

“It’s the sherijS of El Cajon ! ” he exclaimed, contemptu- 
ously. “Pat Hawe with some of his tough deputies come 
to arrest Gene Stewart. They’ve got that poor little 
Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound that 
sheriff!” 

Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence’s 
entreating hand, and started for the door. The cowboys 
jumped up. Alfred barred her progress. 

“Alfred, I am going out,” she said. 

“No, I guess not,” he replied. “That’s no place for 
you.” 

“ I am going.” • She looked straight at him. 

“Madeline! Why, what is it? You look — Dear, 
there’s pretty sure to be trouble outside. Maybe there’ll 
be a fight. You can do nothing. You must not go.” 

“Perhaps I can prevent trouble,” she replied. 

As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with 
Florence at his side and the cowboys behind, were start- 
ing to follow her. When she got out of her room upon 
the porch she heard several men in loud, angry discussion. 
Then, ^at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon 
a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline ex- 
perienced the thrill that sight or mention of this girl 
always gave her. It yielded to a hot pang in her breast — 
that live pain which so shamed her. But almost in- 
stantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita’s 
face, her bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 305 

flesh, her little brown hands stained with blood, Madeline 
was overcome by pity for the unfortunate girl and a 
woman’s righteous passion at such barbarous treatment 
of one of her own sex. 

The man holding the bridle of the horse on which 
Bonita had been bound was at once recognized by Made- 
line as the big-bodied, bullet > headed guerrilla who had 
found the basket of wine in the spring at camp. Redder 
of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently 
under the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as 
a gorilla and as repulsive. Besides him there were three 
other men present, all mounted on weary horses. The 
one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, red-eyed, 
with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El 
Cajon. 

Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the 
porch. Alfred, Florence, and several others followed her 
out; the rest of the cowboys and guests crowded the 
windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline, and, throw- 
ing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the 
gesticulating, quarreling men. 

“Wal now, Pat Ha we, what’s drivin’ you like a locoed 
steer on the rampage?” demanded Stillwell. 

“Keep in the traces. Bill,” replied Hawe. “You savvy 
what I come fer. I’ve been bidin’ my time. But I’m 
ready now. I’m hyar to arrest a criminal.” 

The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had 
been stabbed. His face turned purple. 

“What criminal?” he shouted, hoarsely. 

The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and 
he twisted his thin lips into a leer. The situation was 
agreeable to him. 

“Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin’ 
this range; but I wasn’t wise thet you hed more’n one 
criminal.” 

“Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin’ to 
arrest?” 

Hawe’s manner altered. 


3o6 the light of WESTERN STARS 

“Gene Stewart,” he replied, curtly. 

“On what charge?” 

“Fer killin’ a Greaser one night last fall.” 

“So you’re still harpin’ on that? Pat, you’re on the 
wrong trail. You can’t lay that killin’ onto Stewart. 
The thing’s ancient by now. But if you insist on bringin’ 
him to court, let the arrest go to-day — ^we’re hevin’ some 
fiesta hyar — an’ I’ll fetch Gene in to El Cajom” 

“Nope. I reckon I’ll take him when I got the chance, 
before he slopes.” 

“I’m givin’ you my word,” thundered Stillwell. 

“I reckon I don’t hev to take your word, Bill, or any- 
body else’s.” 

Stillwell’s great bulk quivered with nis rage, yet he 
made a successful effort to control it. 

“See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what’s reasonable. Law 
is law. But in this country there always has been an’ 
is now a safe an’ sane way to proceed with the law. 
Mebbe you’ve forgot that. The law as invested in one 
man in a wild country is liable, owin’ to that man’s weak- 
nesses an’ onlimited authority, to be disputed even by a 
decent ole cattleman like myself. I’m a-goin’ to give 
you a hunch. Pat, you’re not overliked in these parts. 
You’ve rid too much with a high hand. Some of your 
deals hev been shady, an’ don’t you overlook what I’m 
sayin’. But you’re the sheriff, an’ I’m respectin’ your 
office. I’m respectin’ it this much. If the milk of hirnian 
decency is so soured in your breast that you can’t hev a 
kind feelin’, then try to avoid the onpleasantness that ’ll 
result from any contrary move on your part to-day. Do 
you get that hunch?” 

“Stillwell, you’re threatenin’ an officer,” replied Hawe, 
angrily. 

“Will you hit the trail quick out of hyar?” queried 
Stillwell, in strained voice. “I guarantee Stewart’s ap- 
pearance in El Cajon any day you say.” 

“No. I come to arrest him, an’ I’m goin’ to.” 

“So that’s your game!” shouted Stillwell. “We-all 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 307 

are glad to get you straight, Pat. Now listen, you cheap, 
red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! You don’t care how many 
enemies you make. You know you’ll never get office 
again in this county. What do you care now? It’s 
amazin’ strange how earnest you are to hunt down the 
man who killed that particular Greaser. I reckon there’s 
been some dozen or more killin’s of Greasers in the last 
year. Why don’t you take to trailin’ some of them 
killin’s? I’ll tell you why. You’re afraid to go near the 
border. An’ your hate of Gene Stewart makes you want 
to hound him an’ put him where he’s never been yet — in 
jail. You want to spite his friends. Wal, listen, you 
lean-jawed, skunk-bitten coyote! Go ahead an’ try to 
arrest him!” 

Stillwell took one mighty stride off the porch. His 
last words had been cold. His rage appeared to have 
been transferred to Hawe. The sheriff had begun to 
stutter and shake a lanky red hand at the cattleman when 
Stewart stepped out. 

'‘Here, you fellows, give me a chance to say a 
word.” f 

As Stewart appeared the Mexican girl suddenly seemed 
vitalized out of her stupor. She strained at her bonds, 
as if to lift her hands beseechingly. A flush animated her 
haggard face, and her big dark eyes lighted. 

“Senor Gene!” she moaned. “Help me! I so seek. 
They beat me, rope me, ’mos’ keel me. Oh, help me, 
Senor Gene!” 

“Shut up, er I’ll gag you,” said the man who held 
Bonita’s horse. 

“Muzzle her, Sneed, if she blabs again, called Hawe. 

Madeline felt something tense and strained working in 
the short silence. Was it only a phase of her thrilling 
excitement? Her swift glance showed the faces of Nels 
and Monty and Nick to be brooding, cold, watchful. She 
wondered why Stewart did not look toward Bonita. He, 
too, was now dark-faced, cool, quiet, with something 
ominous about him. 


308 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Hawe, I’ll submit to arrest without any fuss,” he said, 
slowly, “if you’ll take the ropes off that girl.” 

“Nope,” replied the sheriff. “She got away from me 
onct. She’s hawg-tied now, an’ she’ll stay hawg-tied.” 

Madeline thought she saw Stewart give a slight start. 
But an unaccountable dimness came over her eyes, at 
brief intervals obscuring her keen sight. Vaguely she was 
conscious of a clogged and beating tumult in her breast. 

“All right, let’s hurry out of here,” said Stewart. 
“You’ve made annoyance enough. Ride down to the 
corral with me. I’ll get my horse and go with you.” 

“Hold on!” yelled Hawe, as Stewart turned away. 
“Not so fast. Who’s doin’ this? You don’t come no 
El Capitan stunts on me. You’ll ride one of my pack- 
horses, an’ you’ll go in irons.” 

“You want to handcuff me?” queried Stewart, with 
sudden swift start of passion. 

“Want to? Haw, haw! Nope, Stewart, thet’s jest 
my way with hoss-thieves, raiders. Greasers, murderers, 
an’ sich. See hyar, you Sneed, git off an’ put the irons 
on this man.” 

The guerrilla called Sneed slid off his horse and began 
to fumble in his saddle-bags. 

“You see. Bill,” went on Hawe, “I swore in a new 
depooty fer this particular job. Sneed is some handy. 
He rounded up thet little Mexican cat fer me.” 

Stillwell did not hear the sheriff; he was gazing at 
Stewart in a kind of imploring amaze. 

“Gene, you ain’t goin’ to stand fer them handcuffs?” 
he pleaded. 

“Yes,” replied the cowboy. “Bill, old friend, I’m an 
outsider here. There’s no call for Miss Hammond and — 
and her brother and Florence to be worried further about 
me. Their happy day has already been spoiled on my 
account. I want to get out quick.” 

“ Wal, you might be too damn considerate of Miss Ham- 
mond’s sensitive feelin’s.” There was now no trace of 
the courteous, kindly old rancher. He looked harder 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 309 

than stone. “How about my feelin’s? I want to know 
if you’re goin’ to let this sneakin’ coyote, this last gasp 
of the old rum-guzzlin’ frontier sheriffs, put you in irons 
an’ hawg-tie you an’ drive you off to jail?” 

“Yes,” replied Stewart, steadily. 

“Wal, by Gawd! You, Gene Stewart! What’s come 
over you? Why, man, go in the house, an’ I’ll ’tend to 
this feller. Then to-morrow you can ride in an’ give 
yourself up like a gentleman.” 

“No. I’ll go. Thanks, Bill, for the way you and the 
boys would stick to me. Hurry, Hawe, before my mind 
changesF 

His voice broke at the last, betra3dng the wonderful con- 
trol he had kept over his passions. As he ceased speaking 
he seemed suddenly to become spiritless. He dropped his 
head. 

Madeline saw in him then a semblance to the hopeless, 
shamed Stewart of earlier days. The vague riot in her 
breast leaped into conscious fuiy^ — a woman’s passionate 
repudiation of Stewart’s broken spirit. It was not that 
she would have him be a lawbreaker; it was that she 
could not bear to see him deny his manhood. Once she 
had entreated him to become her kind of a cowboy — a 
man in whom reason tempered passion. She had let him 
see how painful and shocking any violence was to her. 
And the idea had obsessed him, softened him, had grown 
like a stultifying lichen upon his will, had shorn him of a 
wild, bold spirit she now strangely longed to see him feel. 
When the man Sneed came forward, jingling the iron 
fetters, Madeline’s blood turned to fire. She would have 
forgiven Stewart then for lapsing into the kind of cowboy 
it had been her blind and sickly sentiment to abhor. 
This was a man’s West — a man’s game. What right had 
a woman reared in a softer mold to use her beauty and 
her influence to change a man who was bold and free and 
strong? At that moment, with her blood hot and racing, 
she would have gloried in the violence which she had so 
deplored; she would have welcomed the action that had 


310 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

characterized Stewart' s treatment of Don Carlos; she had 
in her the sudden dawning temper of a woman who had 
been assimilating the life and nature around her and who 
would not have turned her eyes away from a harsh and 
bloody deed. 

But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then 
Madeline heard her own voice burst out in a ringing, 
imperious ''Wait!” 

In the time it took her to make the few steps to the 
edge of the porch, facing the men, she not only felt her 
anger and justice and pride summoning forces to her 
command, but there was something else calling — a deep, 
passionate, mysterious thing not bom of the moment. 

Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart’s face took on 
a chalky whiteness. Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrass- 
ment beyond his control, removed his sombrero in a re- 
spect that seemed wrenched from him. 

“Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not 
concerned in any way whatever with the crime for which 
you want to arrest him.” 

The sheriff’s stare underwent a blinking change. He 
coughed, stammered, and tried to speak. Manifestly, he 
had 'been thrown completely off his balance. Astonish- 
ment slowly merged into discomfiture. 

“ It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been 
connected with that assault,” went on Madeline, swiftly, 
“for he was with me in the waiting-room of the station 
at the moment the assault was made outside. I assure 
you I have a distinct and vivid recollection. The door 
was open. I heard the voices of quarreling men. They 
grew louder. The language was Spanish. Evidently 
these men had left the dance-hall opposite and were ap- 
proaching the station. I heard a woman’s voice mingling 
with the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could not 
understand. But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard 
footsteps on the gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I 
could see from his face that something dreadful was about 
to happen. Just outside the door then there were hoarse. 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 311 

furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman’s cry, 
the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a 
man running away. Next, the girl Bonita staggered into 
the door. She was white, trembling, terror-stricken. 
She recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewart sup- 
ported her and endeavored to calm her. He was excited. 
He asked her if Danny Mains had been shot, or if he 
had done the shooting. The girl said no. She told 
Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted a little with 
vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her. Then Stew- 
art took her outside and put her upon his horse. I saw 
the girl ride that horse down the street to disappear in 
the darkness.” 

While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be 
working in the man Hawe. He was not long disconcerted, 
but his discomflture wore to a sullen fury, and his sharp 
features fixed in an expression of craft. 

“Thet’s mighty interestin’. Miss Hammond, ’most as 
interestin’ as a story-book,” he said. “ Now, since you’re 
so obligin’ a witness, I’d sure like to put a question or two. 
What time did you arrive at El Cajon thet night?” 

‘Ht was after eleven o’clock,” replied Madeline. 

“Nobody there to meet you?” 

“No.” 

“The station agent an’ operator both gone?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?” Hawe 
continued, with a wry smile. 

“Very soon after my arrival. I think — perhaps fifteen 
minutes, possibly a little more.” 

“Some dark an’ lonesome around thet station, wasn’t 
it?” 

“Indeed yes.” 

“An’ what time was the Greaser shot?” queried Hawe, 
with his little eyes gleaming like coals. 

“Probably close to half past one. It was two o’clock 
when I looked at my watch at Florence Kingsley’s house. 
Directly after Stewart sent Bonita away he took me to 


312 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

Miss Kingsley's. So, allowing for the walk and a few 
minutes’ conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say 
the shooting took place at about half past one.” 

Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff. 

“What ’re you drivin’ at?” he roared, his face black 
again. 

“Evidence,” snapped Hawe. 

Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stew- 
art irresistibly drew her glance she saw him gray-faced 
as ashes, shaking, utterly unnerved. 

“I thank you, Miss Hammond,” he said, huskily. 
“But you needn’t answer any more of Hawe’s questions. 
He’s — he’s — It’s not necessary. I’ll go with him now, 
under arrest. Bonita will corroborate your testimony in 
court, and that will save me from this — this man’s spite.” 

Madeline, looking at Stewart, seeing a hiunility she at 
first took for cowardice, suddenly divined that it was not 
fear for himself which made him dread further disclostures 
of that night, but fear for her — fear of shame she might 
suffer through him. 

Pat Hawe cocked his head to one side, like a vulture 
about to strike with his beak, and cunningly eyed Made- 
line. 

“Considered as testimony, what you’ve said is sure 
important an’ conclusive. But I’m calculatin’ thet the 
court will want to hev explained why you stayed from 
eleven-thirty till one-thirty in thet waitin’-room alone 
with Stewart.” 

His deliberate speech met with what Madeline imagined 
a remarkable reception from Stewart, who gave a tigerish 
start; from Stillwell, whose big hands tore at the neck of 
his shirt, as if he was choking; from Alfred, who now 
strode hotly forward, to be stopped by the cold and silent 
Nels; from Monty Price, who uttered a violent ''Aw!'' 
which was both a hiss and a roar. 

In the rush of her thought Madeline could not inter- 
pret the meaning of these things which seemed so strange 
at that moment. But they were portentous. Even as 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 313 

she was forming a reply to Hawe’s speech she felt a chill 
creep over her. 

“Stewart detained me in the waiting-room,” she said, 
clear-voiced as a bell. “But we were not alone — ^all the 
time.” 

For a moment the only sound following her words was 
a gasp from Stewart. Hawe’s face became transformed 
with a hideous amaze and joy. 

“Detained?” he whispered, craning his lean and corded 
neck. “How’s thet?” 

“Stewart was drunk. He — ” 

With sudden passionate gesture of despair Stewart 
appealed to her : 

“Oh, Miss Hammond, don’t! don't! don’t! ...” 

Then he seemed to sink down, head lowered upon his 
breast, in utter shame. Stillwell’s great hand swept to 
the bowed shoulder, and he turned to Madeline. 

“Miss Majesty, I reckon you’d be wise to tell all,” said 
the old cattleman, gravely. “There ain’t one of us 
who could misunderstand any motive or act of yours. 
Mebbe a stroke of lightnin’ might clear this murky air. 
Whatever Gene Stewart did that onlucky night — ^you 
tell it.” 

Madeline’s dignity and self-possession had been dis- 
turbed by Stewart’s importunity. She broke into swift, 
disconnected speech: 

“He came into the station — b, few minutes after I got 
there. I asked — to be shown to a hotel. He said there 
wasn’t any that would accommodate married women. 
He grasped my hand — ^looked for a wedding-ring. Then 
I saw he was — he was intoxicated. He told me he would 
go for a hotel porter. But he came back with a padre — 
Padre Marcos. The poor priest was — terribly frightened. 
So was I. Stewart had turned into a devil. He fired 
his gun at the padre’s feet. He pushed me into a bench. 
Again he shot — ^right before my face. I — I nearly fainted. 
But I heard him cursing the padre — ^heard the padre 
praying or chanting — I didn’t know what. Stewart tried 


314 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

to make me say things in Spanish. All at once he asked 
my name. I told him. He jerked at my veil. I took 
it off. Then he threw his gun down — pushed the padre 
out of the door. That was just before the vaqueros ap- 
proached with Bonita. Padre Marcos must have seen 
them — must have heard them. After that Stewart grew 
quickly sober. He was mortified — distressed — stricken 
with shame. He told me he had been drinking at a 
wedding — I remember, it was Ed Linton’s wedding. 
Then he explained — the boys were always gambling — ^he 
wagered he would marry the first girl who arrived at El 
Cajon. I happened to be the first one. He tried to force 
me to marry him. The rest — relating to the assault on 
the vaquero — I have already told you.” 

Madeline ended, out of breath and panting, with her 
hands pressed upon her heaving bosom. Revelation of 
that secret liberated emotion; those hurried outspoken 
words had made her throb and tremble and burn. Strange- 
ly then she thought of Alfred and his wrath. But he 
stood motionless, as if dazed. Stillwell was trying to 
bolster up the crushed Stewart. 

Hawe rolled his red eyes and threw back his head. 

“Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Say, Sneed, you didn’t 
miss any of it, did ye? Haw, haw! Best I ever heerd in 
all my born days. Ho, ho !” 

Then he ceased laughing, and with glinting gaze upon 
Madeline, insolent and vicious and savage, he began to 
drawl: 

“Wal now, my lady, I reckon your story, if it tallies 
with Bonita’s an’ Padre Marcos’s, will clear Gene Stewart 
in the eyes of the court.” Here he grew slower, more 
biting, sharper and harder of face. “But you needn’t 
expect Pat Hawe or the court to swaller thet part of your 
story — about bein* detained unwillinF* 

Madeline had not time to grasp the sense of his last 
words. Stewart had convulsively sprung upward, white 
as chalk. As he leaped at Hawe Stillwell interposed his 
huge bulk and wrapped his arms around Stewart. There 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 315 

was a brief, whirling, wrestling struggle. Stewart ap- 
peared to be besting the old cattleman. 

“Help, boys, help!” yelled Stillwell. “I can't hold 
him. Hurry, or there’s goin’ to be blood spilled!” 

Nick Steele and several cowboys leaped to Stillwell’s 
assistance. Stewart, getting free, tossed one aside and 
then another. They closed in on him. For an instant 
a furious straining wrestle of powerful bodies made rasp 
and shock and blow. Once Stewart heaved them from 
him. But they plunged back upon him — conquered him. 

“Gene! Why, Gene!” panted the old cattleman. 
“ Sure you’re locoed — to act this way. Cool down! Cool 
down! Why, boy, it’s all right. Jest stand stiU — ^give 
us a chance to talk to you. It’s only ole Bill, you know — 
your ole pal who’s tried to be a daddy to you. He’s only 
wantin’ you to hev sense — to be cool — to wait.” 

“Let me go! Let me go!” cried Stewart; and the 
poignancy of that cry pierced Madeline’s heart. “Let 
me go, Bill, if you’re my friend. I saved your life once — 
over in the desert. You swore you’d never forget. Boys, 
make him let me go ! Oh, I don’t care what Hawe’s said 
or done to me! It was that about her! Are you all a 
lot of Greasers? How can you stand it? Damn you for 
a lot of cowards! There’s a limit, I tell you.” Then his 
voice broke, fell to a whisper. “Bill, dear old Bill, let 
me go. ril kill him! You know Fll kill him!’' 

“Gene, I know you’d kill him if you hed an even break,” 
replied Stillwell,, soothingly. “But, Gene, why, you ain’t 
even packin’ a gun! An’ there’s Pat lookin’ nasty, with 
his hand nervous-like. He seen you hed no gun. He’d 
jump at the chance to plug you now, an’ then holler about 
opposition to the law. Cool down, son; it ’ll all come 
right.” 

Suddenly Madeline was transfixed by a terrible sound. 
Her startled glance shifted from the anxious group round 
Stewart to see that Monty Price had leaped off the porch. 
He crouched down with his hands below his hips, where 
the big guns swimg. From his distorted lips issued that 


3 i 6 the light of WESTERN STARS 

sound which was combined roar and bellow and Indian 
war-whoop, and, more than all, a horrible warning cry. 
He resembled a hunchback about to make the leap of a 
demon. He was quivering, vibrating. His eyes, black 
and hot, were fastened with most piercing intentness 
upon Hawe and Sneed. 

“Git back. Bill, git back !” he roared. “ Git ’em back !” 

With one lunge Stillwell shoved Stewart and Nick and 
the other cowboys up on the porch. Then he crowded 
Madeline and Alfred and Florence to the wall, tried to 
force them farther. His motions were rapid and stem. 
But failing to get them through door and windows, he 
planted his wide person between the women and dan- 
ger. Madeline grasped his arm, held on, and peered fear- 
fully from behind his broad shoulder. 

“You, Hawe ! Y ou, Sneed !’ ’ called Monty, in that same 
wild voice. “Don’t you move a finger er an eyelash!’’ 

Madeline’s faculties nerved to keen, thrilling divination. 
She grasped the relation between Monty’s terrible cry 
and the strange himched posture he had assumed. Still- 
well’s haste and silence, too, were pregnant of catastrophe. 

“Nels, git in this!” yelled Monty; and all the time he 
never shifted his intent gaze as much as a hair’s-breadth 
from Hawe and his deputy. “Nels, chase away them two 
fellers hangin’ back there. Chase ’em, quick!” 

These men, the two deputies who had remained in the 
background with the pack-horses, did not wait for Nels. 
They spurred their mounts, wheeled, and galloped away. 

“Now, Nels, cut the gurl loose,” ordered Monty. 

Nels ran forward, jerked the halter out of Siieed’s 
hand, and pulled Bonita’s horse in close to the porch. 
As he slit the rope which boimd her she fell into his arms. 

“Hawe, git down!” went on Monty. “Face front an’ 
stiff!” 

The sheriff swung his leg, and, never moving his hands, 
with his face now a deathly, sickening white, he slid to the 
ground. 

“ Line up there beside your guerrilla pard. There ! You 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 317 

two make a damn fine pictoor, a damn fine team 01 pizened 
coyote an’ a cross between a wild mule an’ a Greaser. 
Now listen!” 

Monty made a long pause, in which his breathing was 
plainly audible. 

Madeline’s eyes were riveted upon Monty. Her mind, 
swift as lightning, had gathered the subtleties in action 
and word succeeding his domination of the men. Vio- 
lence, terrible violence, the thing she had felt, the thing 
she had feared, the thing she had sought to eliminate from 
among her cowboys, was, after many months, about to be 
enacted before her eyes. It had come at last. She had 
softened Stillwell, she had influenced Nels, she had changed 
Stewart; but this little black-faced, terrible Monty Price 
now rose, as it were, out of his past wild years, and no 
power on earth or in heaven could stay his hand. It was 
the hard life of wild men in a wild country that was about 
to strike this blow at her. She did not shudder; she did 
not wish to blot out from sight this little man, terrible in 
his mood of wild justice. She suffered a flash of horror 
that Monty, blind and dead to her authority, cold as steel 
toward her presence, understood the deeps of a woman’s 
soul. For in this moment of strife, of insult to her, of 
torture to the man she had uplifted and then broken, the 
passion of her reached deep toward primitive hate. With 
eyes slowly hazing red, she watched Monty Price; she 
listened with thrumming ears; she waited, slowly sag- 
ging against Stillwell. 

*‘Hawe, if you an’ your dirty pard hev loved the sound 
of human voice, then listen an’ listen hard,” said Monty. 
“Fer I’ve been goin’ contrary to my ole style jest to hev 
a talk with you. You all but got away on your nerve, 
didn’t you? ’Cause why? You roll in here like a mad 
steer an’ flash yer badge an’ talk mean, then almost bluff 
away with it. You heerd all about Miss Hammond’s cow- 
boy outfit stoppin’ drinkin’ an’ cussin’ an’ packin’ guns. 
They’ve took on religion an’ decent livin’, an’ sure they’ll 
be easy to hobble an’ drive to jail. Hawe, listen. There 


3 i 8 the light of WESTERN STARS 

was a good an' nobie an be-ootiful woman come out of the 
East somewheres, an’ she brought a lot of :junshine an’ 
happiness an’ new idees into the tough lives of cowboys. 
I reckon it’s beyond you to know what she come to mean 
to them. Wal, I’ll tell you. They-all went clean out of 
their heads. They-all got soft an’ easy an’ sweet-tem- 
pered. They got so they couldn’t kill a coyote, a crippled 
calf in a mud-hole. They took to books, an’ writin’ home 
to mother an’ sister, an’ to savin’ money, an’ to gittin’ 
married. Onct they was only a lot of poor cowboys, an’ 
then sudden-like they was human bein’s, livin’ in a big 
world thet hed somethin’ sweet even fer them. Even fer 
me — an ole, worn-out, hobble-legged, burned-up cowman 
like me! Do you git thet? An’ you. Mister Hawe, you 
come along, not satisfied with ropin’ an’ heatin’, an’ Gaw 
knows what else, of thet friendless little Bonita; you come 
along an’ face the lady we fellers honor an’ love an’ 
reverence, an’ you — you — HelVs fireT 

With whistling breath, foaming at the mouth, Monty 
Price crouched lower, hands at his hips, and he edged inch 
by inch farther out from the porch, closer to Hawe and 
Sneed. Madeline saw them only in the blurred fringe of 
her sight. They resembled specters. She heard the 
shrill whistle of a horse and recognized Majesty calling 
her from the corral. 

“Thet’s all!” roared Monty, in a voice now strangling. 
Lower and lower he bent, a terrible figure of ferocity. 
'‘Now, both you armed ocifers of the law, come on! 
Flash your guns! Throw ’em, an’ be quick! Monty 
Price is done! There ’ll be daylight through you both 
before you fan a hammer! But I’m givin’ you a chanst 
to sting me. You holler law, an’ my way is the ole law.” 

His breath came quicker, his voice grew hoarser, and 
he crouched lower. All his body except his rigid arms 
quivered with a wonderful muscular convulsion. 

“Dogs!. Skunks! Buzzards! Flash them guns, er I’ll 
flash mine! Aha!'' 

To Madeline it seemed the three stiff, crouching men 


THE SHERIFF OF EL CAJON 319 

leaped into instant and united action. She saw streaks 
of fire — streaks of smoke. Then a crashing volley deaf- 
ened her. It ceased as quickly. Smoke veiled the scene. 
Slowly it drifted away to disclose three fallen men, one 
of whom, Monty, leaned on his left hand, a smoking gun 
in his right. He watched for a movement from the other 
two. It did not come. Then, with a terrible smile, he 
slid back and stretched out. 


320 


XXI 

UNBRIDLED 

I N waking and sleeping hours Madeline Hammond 
could not release herself from the thralling memory 
of that tragedy. She was haunted by Monty Price’s 
terrible smile. Only in action of some kind could she 
escape; and to that end she worked, she walked and rode. 
She even overcame a strong feeling, which she feared was 
unreasonable disgust, for the Mexican girl Bonita, who 
lay ill at the ranch, bruised and feverish, in need of skil- 
ful nursing. 

Madeline felt there was something inscrutable changing 
her soul. That strife — the struggle to decide her destiny 
for East or West — ^held still further aloof. She was never 
spiritually alone. There was a step on her trail. Indoors 
she was oppressed. She required the open — the light and 
wind, the sight of endless slope, the sounds of corral and 
pond and field, physical things, natural things. 

One afternoon she rode down to the alfalfa-fields, round 
them, and back up to the spillway of the lower lake, where 
a group of mesquite-trees, owing to the water that seeped 
through the sand to their roots, had taken on bloom and 
beauty of renewed life. Under these trees there was 
shade enough to make a pleasant place to linger. Made- 
line dismounted, desiring to rest a little. She liked this 
quiet, lonely spot. It was really the only secluded nook 
near the house. If she rode down into the valley or out 
to the mesa or up on the foothills she could not go alone. 
Probably now Stillwell or Nels knew her whereabouts. 
But as she was comparatively hidden here, she imagined 
a solitude that was not actually hers. 


UNBRIDLED 


321 


Her horse, Majesty, tossed his head and flung his 
mane and switched his tail at the flies. He would rather 
have been cutting the wind down the valley slope. Made- 
line sat with her back against a tree, and took off her 
sombrero. The soft breeze, fanning her hot face, blowing 
strands of her hair, was refreshingly cool. She heard 
the slow tramp of cattle going in to drink. That sound 
ceased, and the grove of mesquites appeared to be lifeless, 
except for her and her horse. It was, however, only after 
moments of attention that she found the place was far 
from being dead. Keen eyes and ears brought reward. 
Desert quail, as gray as the bare earth, were dusting them- 
selves in a shady spot. A bee, swift as light, hummed by. 
She saw a homed toad, the color of stone, squatting low, 
hiding fearfully in the sand within reach of her whip. 
She extended the point of the whip, and the toad quivered 
and swelled and hissed. It was instinct with fight. The 
wind faintly stirred the thin foliage of the mesquites, 
making a mournful sigh. From far up in the foothills, 
barely distinguishable, came the scream of an eagle. The 
bray of a burro brought a brief, discordant break. Then 
a brown bird darted down from an unseen perch and made 
a swift, irregular flight after a fluttering winged insect. 
Madeline heard the sharp snapping of a merciless beak. 
Indeed, there was more than life in the shade of the 
mesquites. 

Suddenly Majesty picked up his long ears and snorted. 
Then Madeline heard a slow pad of hoofs. A horse was 
approaching from the direction of the lake. Madeline 
had learned to be wary, and, mounting Majesty, she turned 
him toward the open. A moment la1»er she felt glad of 
her caution, for, looking back between the trees, she saw 
Stewart leading a horse into the grove. She would as lief 
have met a guerrilla as this cowboy. 

Majesty had broken into a trot when a shrill whistle 
rent the air. The horse leaped and, wheeling so swiftly 
that he nearly unseated Madeline, he charged back straight 
for the mesquites. Madeline spoke to him, cried angrily 


322 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

at him, pulled with all her sirengtn upon the bridle, but 
was helplessly unable to stop him. He whistled a piercing 
blast. Madeline realized then that Stewart, his old 
master, had called him and that nothing could turn him. 
She gave up trying, and attended to the urgent need of 
intercepting mesquite boughs that Majesty thrashed into 
motion. The horse thumped into an aisle between the 
trees and, stopping before Stewart, whinnied eagerly. 

Madeline, not knowing what to expect, had not time 
for any feeling but amaze. A quick glance showed her 
Stewart in rough garb, dressed for the trail, and leading 
a wiry horse, saddled and packed. When Stewart, with- 
out looking at her, put his arm around Majesty’s neck 
and laid his face against the flowing mane Madeline’s 
heart suddenly began to beat with unwonted quickness. 
Stewart seemed oblivious to her presence. His eyes were 
closed. His dark face softened, lost its hardness and 
fierceness and sadness, and^ for an instant became 
beautiful. 

Madeline instantly divined what nis action meant. He 
was leaving the ranch ; this was his good-by to his horse. 
How strange, sad, fine was this love between man and 
beast! A dimness confused Madeline’s eyes; she hur- 
riedly brushed it away, and it came back wet and blur- 
ring. She averted her face, ashamed of the tears Stewart 
might see. She was sorry for him. He was going away, 
and this time, judging from the nature of his farewell to 
his horse, it was to be forever. Like a stab from a cold 
blade a pain shot through Madeline’s heart. The won- 
der of it, the incomprehensibility of it, the utter newness 
and strangeness of this sharp pain that now left behind a 
dull pang, made her forget Stewart, her surroundings, 
everything except to search her heart. Maybe here was 
the secret that had eluded her. She trembled on the brink 
of something unknown. In some strange way the emo- 
tion brought back her girlhood. Her mind revolved swift 
queries and replies; she was living, feeling, learning; 
happiness mocked at her from behind a barred door, and 


UNBRIDLED 


323 


the bar of that door seemed to be an inexplicable pain. 
Then like lightning strokes shot the questions: Why 
should pain hide her happiness? What was her happi- 
ness? What relation had it to this man? Why should 
she feel strangely about his departure? And the voices 
within her were silenced, stunned, unanswered. 

“I want to talk to you,” said Stewart. 

Madeline started, turned to him, and now she saw the 
earlier Stewart, the man who reminded her of their first 
meeting at El Cajon, of that memorable meeting at 
Chiricahua. 

“I want to ask you something,” he went on. “I’ve 
been wanting to know something. That’s why I’ve hung 
on here. You never spoke to me, never noticed me, 
never gave me a chance to ask you. But now I’m going 
over — over the border. And I want to know. Why did 
you refuse to listen to me?” 

At his last words that hot shame, tenfold more stifling 
than when it had before humiliated Madeline, rushed over 
her, sending the scarlet in a wave to her temples. It 
seemed that his words made her realize she was actually 
face to face with him, that somehow a shame she would 
rather have died than revealed was being liberated. Bit- 
ing her lips to hold back speech, she jerked on Majesty’s 
bridle, struck him with her whip, spurred him. Stewart’s 
iron arm held the horse. Then Madeline, in a flash of 
passion, struck at Stewart’s face, missed it, struck again, 
and hit. With one pull, almost drawing her from the 
saddle, he tore the whip from her hands. It was not that 
action on his part, or the sudden strong masterfulness of 
his look, so much as the livid mark on his face where the 
whip had lashed that quieted, if it did not check, her fury. 

“That’s nothing,” he said, with something of his old 
audacity. “That’s nothing to how you’ve hurt me.” 

Madeline battled with herself for control. This man 
would not be denied. Never before had the hardness of 
his face, the flinty hardness of these desert-bred men, so 
struck her with its revelation of the unbridled spirit. He 


324 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

looked stem, haggard, bitter. The dark shade was 
changing to gray — the gray to ash-color of passion. About 
him now there was only the ghost of that finer, gentler 
man she had helped to bring into being. The piercing 
dark eyes he bent upon her burned her, went through her 
as if he were looking into her soul. Then IMadeline’s 
quick sight caught a fleeting doubt, a wistful ness, a sur- 
prised and saddened certainty in his eyes, saw it shade 
and pass away. Her woman’s intuition, as keen as her 
sight, told her Stewart in that moment had sustained a 
shock of bitter, final tmth. 

For the third time he repeated his question to her. 
Madeline did not answer; she could not speak. 

“You don’t know I love you, do you?” he continued, 
passionately. “That ever since you stood before me in 
that hole at Chiricahua I’ve loved you? You can’t see 
I’ve been another man, loving you, working for you, living 
for you? You won’t believe I’ve turned my back on the 
old wild life, that I’ve been decent and honorable and 
happy and useful — your kind of a cowboy? You couldn’t 
tell, though I loved you, that I never wanted you to know 
it, that I never dared to think of you except as my angel, 
my holy Virgin? What do you know of a man’s heart 
and soul? How could you tell of the love, the salvation 
of a man who’s lived his life in the silence and loneliness ? 
Who could teach you the actual truth — ^that a wild cow- 
boy, faithless to mother and sister, except in memory, 
riding a hard, drunken trail straight to hell^ had look^ 
into the face, the eyes of a beautiful woman infinitely 
beyond him, above him, and had so loved her that he 
was saved — that he became faithful again — that he saw 
her face in every flower and her eyes in the blue heaven? 
Who could tell you, when at night I stood alone under 
these Western stars, how deep in my soul I was glad just 
to be alive, to be able to do something for you, to be near 
you, to stand between you and worry, trouble, danger, 
to feel somehow that I was a part, just a little part of the 
West you had come to love?” 


UNBRIDLED 325 

Madeline was mute. She heard her heart thundering 
in her ears. 

Stewart leaped at her. His powerful hand closed on her 
arm. She trembled. His action presaged the old in- 
stinctive violence. 

“No; but you think I kept Bonita up in the mountains, 
that I went secretly to meet her, that all the while I 
served you I was — Oh, I know what you think! I know 
now. I never knew till I made you look at me. Now, 
say it! Speak!' 

White-hot, blinded, utterly in the fiery grasp of passion, 
powerless to stem the rush of a word both shameful and 
revealing and fatal, Madeline cried: 

“Yes!” 

He had wrenched that word from her, but he was not 
subtle enough, not versed in the mystery of woman’s 
motive enough, to divine the deep significance of her 
reply. 

For him the word had only literal meaning confinning 
the dishonor in which she held him. Dropping her arm, 
he shrank back, a strange action for the savage and crude 
man she judged him to be. 

“But that day at Chiricahua you spoke of faith,” he 
burst out. “You said the greatest thing in the world was 
faith in human nature. You said the finest men had been 
those who had fallen low and had risen. You said you 
had faith in me! You made me have faith in myself!" 

His reproach, without bitterness or scorn, was a lash 
to her old egoistic belief in her fairness. She had preached 
a beautiful principle that she had failed to live up to. 
She understood his rebuke, she wondered and wavered, 
but the affront to her pride had been too great, the tumult 
within her breast had been too startlingly fierce; she could 
not speak, the moment passed, and with it his brief, 
rugged splendor of simplicity. 

“You think I am vile,” he said. “You think that 
about Bonita ! And all the time I’ve been ... I could 
make you ashamed — I could tell you — ” 


326 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

His passionate utterance ceased with a snap of his 
teeth. His lips set in a thin, bitter line. The agitation 
of his face preceded a convulsive wrestling of his shoulders. 
All this swift action denoted an inner combat, and it 
nearly overwhelmed him. 

“No, no!” he panted. Was it his answer to some 
mighty temptation? Then, like a bent sapling released, 
he sprang erect. “But I’ll be the man — the dog — you 
think me!” 

He laid hold of her arm with rude, powerful clutch. 
One pull drew her sliding half out of the saddle into his 
arms. She fall with her breast against his, not wholly 
free of stirrups or horse, and there she himg, utterly power- 
less. Maddened, writhing, she tore to release herself. 
All she could accomplish was to twist herself, raise herself 
high enough to see his face. That almost paralyzed her. 
Did he mean to kill her? Then he wrapped his arms 
around her and crushed her tighter, closer to him. She 
felt the pound of his heart; her own seemed to have 
frozen. Then he pressed his burning lips to hers. It was 
a long, terrible kiss. She felt him shake. 

“Oh, Stewart! I — implore — ^you — ^let — ^me — go!” she 
whispered. 

His white face loomed over hers. She closed her eyes. 
He rained kisses upon her face, but no more upon her 
mouth. On her closed eyes, her hair, her cheeks, her neck 
he pressed swift, lips — lips that lost their fire and grew 
cold. Then he released her, and, lifting and righting her 
in the saddle, he still held her arm to keep her from 
falling. 

For a moment Madeline sat on her horse with shut 
eyes. She dreaded the light. 

“Now you can’t say you’ve never been kissed,” Stewart 
said. His voice seemed a long way ofi. “But that was 
coming to you, so be game. Here!” 

She felt something hard and cold and metallic thrust 
into her hand. He made her fingers close over it, hold 
it. The feel of the thing revived her. She opened her 


UNBRIDLED 


327 


eyes. Stewart had given her his gun. He stood with 
his broad breast against her knee, and she looked up to 
see that old mocking smile on his face. 

“Go ahead! Throw my gun on me! Be a thorough- 
bred!” 

Madeline did not yet grasp his meaning. 

“You can put me down in that quiet place on the hill — 
beside Monty Price.” 

Madeline dropped the gun with a shuddering cry of 
horror. The sense of his words, the memory of Monty, 
the certainty that she would kill Stewart if she held the 
gun an instant longer, tortured the self-accusing cry from 
her. 

Stewart stooped to pick up the weapon. 

“You might have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble,” 
he said, with another flash of the mocking smile. “You’re 
beautiful and sweet and proud, but you’re no thorough- 
bred! Majesty Hammond, adios!” 

Stewart leaped for the saddle of his horse, and with the 
flying mount crashed through the mesquites to disappear. 


328 


xxri 

THE SECRET TOLD 

I N the shaded seclusion of her room, buried face down 
deep among the soft cushions on her couch, Madeline 
Hammond lay prostrate and quivering imder the outrage 
she had suffered. 

The afternoon wore away; twilight fell; night came; 
and then Madeline rose to sit by the window to let the 
cool wind blow upon her hot face. She passed through 
hours of unintelligible shame and impotent rage and futile 
striving to reason away her defilement. 

The train of brightening stars seemed to mock her with 
their unattainable passionless serenity. She had loved 
them, and now she imagined she hated them and every- 
thing connected with this wild, fateful, and abrupt West. 
She would go home. 

Edith Wayne had been nght; the West was no place 
for Madeline Hammond. The decision to go home came 
easily, naturally, she thought, as the result of events. It 
caused her no mental strife. Indeed, she fancied she felt 
relief. The great stars, blinking white and cold over the 
dark crags, looked down upon her, and, as always, after 
she had watched them for a while they enthralled her. 
“Under Western stars,” she mused, thinking a little scorn- 
fully of the romantic destiny they had blazed for her idle 
sentiment. But they were beautiful^ they were speak- 
ing; they were mocking; they dre'\^^er. “Ah!” she 
sighed. “ It will not be so very easy to l^ve them, after 
all.” 

Madeline closed and darkened the window. She 


THE SECRET TOLD 


329 


struck a light. It was necessary to tell the anxious ser- 
vants who knocked that she was well and required noth- 
ing. A soft step on the walk outside arrested her. Who 
was there — Nels or Nick Steele or Stillwell? Who shared 
the guardianship over her, now that Monty Price was dead 
and that other — that savage — ? It was monstrous and 
unfathomable that she regretted him. 

The light annoyed her. Complete darkness fitted her 
strange mood. She retired and tried to compose herself 
to sleep. Sleep for her was not a matter of will. 
Her cheeks burned so hotly that she rose to bathe 

them. Cold water would not alleviate this btim, and 

then, despairing of forgetfulness, she lay down again with a 
shameful gratitude for the cloak of night. Stewart’s kisses 
were there, scorching her lips, her closed eyes, her swelling 
neck. They penetrated deeper and deeper into her blood, 
into her heart, into her soul — the terrible farewell kisses of 
a passionate, hardened man. Despite his baseness, he had 
loved her. 

Late in the night Madeline fell asleep. In the morning 
she was pale and languid, but in a mental condition that 
promised composure. 

It was considerably after her regular hour that Made- 
line repaired to her office. The door was open, and just 
outside, tipped back in a chair, sat Stillwell. 

“Mawnin*, Miss Majesty,” he said, as he rose to greet 
her with his usual courtesy. There were signs of trouble 
in his lined face. Madeline shrank inwardly, fearing his 
old lamentations about Stewart. Then she saw a dusty, 
ragged pony in the yard and a Httle burro drooping imder 
a heavy pack. Both animals bore evidence of long, 
arduous travel. 

"‘To whom do they belong?” asked Madeline. 

“Them critters? Why, Danny Mains,” replied Still- 
well, with a cough that betrayed embarrassment. 

“Danny Mains?” echoed Madeline, wonderingly. 

“Wal, I said so.” 

Stillwell was indeed not himself. 


330 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“Is Danny Mains here?" she asked, in sudden curi- 
osity. 

The old cattleman nodded gloomily. 

“Yep, he’s hyar, all right. Sloped in from the hills, 
an’ he hollered to see Bonita. He’s locoed, too, about that 
little black-eyed hussy. Why, he hardly said, ‘Howdy, 
Bill,’ before he begun to ask wild an’ eager questions. I 
took him in to see Bonita. He’s been there more ’n a 
half-hour now.” 

Evidently Stillwell’s sensitive feelings had been ruffled. 
Madeline’s curiosity changed to blank astonishment, 
which left her with a thrilling premonition. She caught 
her breath. A thousand thoughts seemed thronging for 
clear conception in her mind. 

Rapid footsteps with an accompaniment of clinking 
spurs sounded in the hallway. Then a young man ran 
out upon the porch. He resembled a cowboy in his 
lithe build, his garb and action, in the way he wore 
his gun, but his face, instead of being red, was clear 
brown tan. His eyes were blue; his hair was light and 
curly. He was a handsome, frank-faced boy. At sight 
of Madeline he slammed down his sombrero and, leaping 
at her, he possessed himself of her hands. His swift vio- 
lence not only alarmed her, but painfully reminded her 
of something she wished to forget. 

This cowboy bent his head and kissed her hands and 
wrung them, and when he straightened up he was crying. 

“Miss Hammond, she’s safe an’ almost well, an’ what 
I feared most ain’t so, thank God,” he cried. “Sure I’ll 
never be able to pay you for all you’ve done for her. She’s 
told me how she was dragged down here, how Gene tried 
to save her, how you spoke up for Gene an’ her, too, how 
Monty at the last throwed his guns. Poor Monty! We 
were good friends, Monty an’ I. But it wasn’t friendship 
for me that made Monty stand in there. He would have 
saved her, anyway. Monty Price was the whitest man 
I ever knew. There’s Nels an’ Nick an’ Gene, he’s been 
some friend to me; but Monty Price was — he was grand. 


THE SECRET TOLD 


331 

He never knew, any more than you or Bill, here, or the 
boys, what Bonita was to me.” 

Stillwell’s kind and heavy hand fell upon the cowboy’s 
shoulder. 

“Danny, what’s all this queer gab?” he asked. “An’ 
you’re takin’ some liberty with Miss Hammond, who 
never seen you before. Sure I’m makin’ allowance fer 
amazin’ strange talk. I see you’re not drinkin’. Mebbe 
you’re plumb locoed. Come, ease up now an’ talk 
sense.” 

The cowboy’s fine, frank face broke into a smile. He 
dashed the tears from his eyes. Then he laughed. His 
laugh had a pleasant, boyish ring — Si happy ring. 

“Bill, old pal, stand bridle down a minute, will you?” 
Then he bowed to Madeline. “I beg your pardon, Miss 
Hammond, for seemin’ rudeness. I’m Danny Mains. 
An’ Bonita is my wife. I’m so crazy glad she’s safe an’ 
unharmed — so grateful to you that — ^why, sure it’s a 
wonder I didn’t kiss you outright.” 

“Bonita’s your wife!” ejaculated Stillwell. 

“Sure. We’ve been married for months,” replied 
Danny, happily. “Gene Stewart did it. Good old Gene, 
he’s hell on marryin’. I guess maybe I haven’t come to 
pay him up for all he’s done for me! You see, I’ve been 
in love with Bonita for two years. An’ Gene — you know, 
Bill, what a way Gene has with girls — ^he was — well, he 
was tryin’ to get Bonita to have me.” 

Madeline’s quick, varying emotions were swallowed up 
in a boundless gladness. Something dark, deep, heavy, 
and somber was flooded from her heart. She had a sud- 
den rich sense of gratitude toward this smiling, clean- 
faced cowboy whose blue eyes flashed through tears. 

“Danny Mains!” she said, tremulously and smilingly. 
“If you are as glad as your news has made me — if you 
really think I merit such a reward — ^you may kiss me out- 
right.” 

With a bashful wonder, but with right hearty will, 
Danny Mains availed himself of this gracious privilege. 


332 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

Stillwell snorted. The signs of his phenomenal smile 
were manifest, otherwise Madeline would have thought 
that snort an indication of furious disapproval. 

“Bill, straddle a chair,” said Danny. “You’ve gone 
back a heap these last few months, frettin’ over your bad 
boys, Danny an’ Gene. You’ll need support under you 
while I’m throwin’ my yam. Story of my life. Bill.” 
He placed a chair for Madeline. “Miss Hammond, 
beggin’ your pardon again, I want you to listen, also. 
You’ve the face an’ eyes of a woman who loves to hear of 
other people’s happiness. Besides, somehow, it’s easy 
for me to talk lookin’ at you.” 

His manner subtly changed then. Possibly it took on 
a little swagger; certainly he lost the dignity that he had 
shown under stress of feeling; he was now more like a 
cowboy about to boast or affect some stunning maneuver. 
Walking off the porch, he stood before the weary horse 
and burro. 

“Played out!” he exclaimed. 

Then with the swift violence so characteristic of men 
of his class, he slipped the pack from the burro and threw 
saddle and bridle from the horse. 

“There! See ’em! Take a look at the last dog-gone 
weight you ever packed! You’ve been some faithful to 
Danny Mains. An’ Danny Mains pays! Never a saddle 
again or a strap or a halter or a hobble so long as you live ! 
So long as you live nothin’ but grass an’ clover, an’ cool 
water in shady places, an’ dusty swales to roll in an’ rest 
an’ sleep!” 

Then he untied the pack and, taking a small, heavy 
sack from it, he came back upon the porch. Deliberately 
he dumped the contents of the sack at Stillwell’s feet. 
Piece after piece of rock thumped upon the floor. The 
pieces were sharp, ragged, evidently broken from a ledge; 
the body of them was white in color, with yellow veins 
and bars and streaks. Stillwell grasped up one rock after 
another, stared and stuttered, put the rocks to his lips, 
dug into them with his shaking fingers; then he lay back 


THE SECRET TOLD 


333 

in his chair, head against the wall, and as he gaped at 
Danny the old smile began to transform his face. 

“Lord, Danny, if you hevn’t been an’ gone an’ struck 
it rich!’’ 

Danny regarded Stillwell with lofty condescension. 

“Some rich,’’ he said. “Now, Bill, what ’ve we got 
here, say, offhand?’’ 

“Oh, Lord, Danny! I’m afraid to say. Look, Miss 
Majesty, jest look at the gold. I’ve lived among pros- 
pectors an’ gold-mines fer thirty years, an’ I never seen 
the beat of this.’’ 

“The Lost Mine of the Padres!’’ cried Danny, in sten- 
torian voice. “Aw’ it belongs to me!** 

Stillwell made some incoherent sound as he sat up fas- 
cinated, quite beside himself. 

“Bill, it was some long time ago since you saw me,’’ 
said Danny. “Fact is, I know how you felt, because 
Gene kept me posted. I happened to run across Bonita, 
an’ I wasn’t goin’ to let her ride away alone, when she 
told me she was in trouble. We hit the trail for the 
Peloncillos. Bonita had Gene’s horse, an’ she was to 
meet him up on the trail. We got to the mountains all 
right, an’ nearly starved for a few days till Gene found 
us. He had got in trouble himself an’ couldn’t fetch 
much with him. 

“We made for the crags an’ built a cabin. I come 
down that day Gene sent his horse Majesty to you. 
Never saw Gene so broken-hearted. Well, after he sloped 
for the border Bonita an’ I were hard put to it to keep 
alive. But we got along, an’ I think it was then she be- 
gan to care a little for me. Because I was decent. I 
killed cougars an’ went down to Rodeo to get bounties 
for the skins, an’ bought grub an’ supplies I needed. 
Once I went to El Cajon an’ run plumb into Gene. He 
was back from the revolution an’ cuttin’ up some. But 
I got away from him after doin’ all I could to drag him 
out of town. A long time after that Gene trailed up to 
the crags an’ found us. Gene had stopped drinkin’, he’d 


334 the light OF WESTERN STARS 

changed wonderful, was fine an’ dandy. It was then he 
began to pester the life out of me to make me marry 
Bonita. I was happy, so was she, an’ I was some scared 
of spoilin’ it. Bonita had been a little flirt, an’ I was 
afraid she’d get shy of a halter, so I bucked against Gene. 
But I was all locoed, as it turned out. Gene would come 
up occasionally, packin’ supplies for us, an’ always he’d 
get after me to do the right thing by Bonita. Gene’s so 
dog-gone hard to buck against! I had to give in, an’ I 
asked Bonita to marry me. Well, she wouldn’t at first — 
said she wasn’t good enough for me. But I saw the mar- 
riage idea was workin’ deep, an’ I just kept on bein’ as 
decent as I knew how. So it was my wantin’ to marry 
Bonita — ^my bein’ glad to marry her — that made her grow 
soft an’ sweet an’ pretty as — ^as a mountain quail. G^ne 
fetched up Padre Marcos, an’ he married us.” 

Danny paused in his narrative, breathing hard, as if 
the memory of the incident described had stirred strong 
and thrilling feeling in him. Stillwell’s smile was raptur- 
ous. Madeline leaned toward Danny with her eyes 
shining. 

“Miss Hammond, an’ you. Bill Stillwell, now listen, 
for this is strange I’ve got to tell you. The afternoon 
Bonita an’ I were married, when Gene an’ the padre had 
gone, I was happy one minute an’ low-hearted the next. 
I was miserable because I had a bad name. I couldn’t 
buy even a decent dress for my pretty wife. Bonita 
heard me, an’ she was some mysterious. She told me the 
story of the lost mine of the padres, an’ she kissed me an’ 
made joyful over me in the strangest way. I knew mar- 
riage went to women’s heads, an’ I thought even Bonita 
had a spell. 

“Well, she left me for a little, an’ when she came back 
she wore some pretty yellow flowers in her hair. Her 
eyes were big an’ black an’ beautiful. She said some 
queer things about spirits rollin’ rocks down the canon. 
Then she said she wanted to show me where she always 
sat an’ waited an’ watched for me when I was away. 


THE SECRET TOLD 


335 

She led me around under the crags to a long slope. It 
was some pretty there — clear an’ open, with a long 
sweep, an’ the desert yawnin’ deep an’ red. There were 
yellow flowers on that slope, the same kind she had in 
her hair — the same kind that Apache girl wore hundreds 
of years ago when she led the padre to the gold-mine. 

“When I thought of that, an’ saw Bonita’s eyes, an’ 
then heard the strange crack of rollin’ rocks — heard them 
rattle down an’ roll an’ grow faint — I was some out of 
my head. But not for long. Them rocks were rollin’ 
all right, only it was the weatherin’ of the cliffs. 

“An’ there under the crags was a gold pocket. 

“Then I was worse than locoed. I went gold-crazy. 
I worked like seventeen burros. Bill, I dug a lot of gold- 
bearin’ quartz. Bonita watched the trails for me, brought 
me water. That was how she come to get caught by Pat 
Hawe an’ his guerrillas. Sure! Pat Hawe was so set 
on doin’ Gene dirt that he mixed up with Don Carlos. 
Bonita will tell you some staggerin’ news about that 
outfit. Just now my story is all gold.’’ 

Danny Mains got up and kicked back his chair. Blue 
lightning gleamed from his eyes as he thrust a hand tow- 
ard Stillwell. 

“Bill, old pal, put her there — give me your hand,” he 
said. “You were always my friend. You had faith in 
me. Well, Danny Mains owes you, an’ he owes Gene 
Stewart a good deal, an’ Danny Mains pays. I want 
two pardners to help me work my gold-mine. You an’ 
Gene. If there’s any ranch hereabouts that takes your 
fancy I’ll buy it. If Miss Hammond ever gets tired of 
her range an’ stock an’ home I’ll buy them for Gene. 
If there’s any railroad or town round here that she likes 
I’ll buy it. If I see anythin’ myself that I like I’ll buy 
it. Go out; find Gene for me. I’m achin’ to see him, 
to tell him. Go fetch him; an’ right here in this house, 
with my wife an’ Miss Hammond as witnesses, we’ll 
draw up a pardnership. Go find him, Bill. I want to 
show him this gold, show him how Danny Mains ^'"vs! 


336 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

An’ the only bitter drop in my cup to-day is that I can’t 
ever pay Monty Price.” 

Madeline’s lips tremblingly formed to tell Danny Mains 
and Stillwell that the cowboy they wanted so much had 
left the ranch; but the flame of fine loyalty that burned 
in Danny’s eyes, the happiness that made the old cattle- 
man’s face at once amazing and beautiful, stiffened her 
lips. She watched the huge Stillwell and the little cow- 
boy, both talking wildly, as they walked off arm in arm 
to find Stewart. She imagined something of what 
Danny’s disappointment would be, of the elder man’s 
consternation and grief, when he learned Stewart had left 
for the border. At this juncture she looked up to see a 
strange, yet familiar figure approaching. Padre Marcos! 
Certain it was that Madeline felt herself trembling. What 
did his presence mean on this day? He had always 
avoided meeting her whenever possible. He had been 
exceedingly grateful for all she had done for his people, 
his church, and himself; but he had never thanked her 
in person. Perhaps he had come for that purpose now. 
But Madeline did not believe so. 

Mention of Padre Marcos, sight of him, had always oc- 
casioned Madeline a little indefinable shock; and now, 
as he stepped to the porch, a shrunken, stooped, and sad- 
faced man, she was startled. 

The padre bowed low to her. 

“Senora, will you grant me audience?” he asked, in 
perfect English, and his voice was low-toned and grave. 

“Certainly, Padre Marcos,” replied Madeline; and she 
led him into her office. 

“May I beg to close the doors?” he asked. “It is a 
matter of great moment, which you might not care to 
have any one hear.” 

Wonderingly Madeline inclined her head. The padre 
gently closed one door and then the others. 

“Senora, I have come to disclose a secret — my own 
sinfulness in keeping it — and to implore your pardon. 


THE SECRET TOLD 


337 


Do you remember that night Senor Stewart dragged me 
before you in the waiting-room at El Cajon?” 

“Yes,” replied Madeline. 

“Senora, since that night you have been Senor Stew- 
art’s wife!” 

Madeline became as motionless as stone. She seemed 
to feel nothing, only to hear. 

“You are Senor Stewart’s wife. I have kept the secret 
under fear of death. But I could keep it no longer. Senor 
Stewart may kill me now. Ah, Senora, it is very strange 
to you. You were so frightened that night, you knew 
not what happened. Senor Stewart threatened me. He 
forced you. He made me speak the service. He made 
you speak the Spanish yes. And I, Senora, knowing the 
deeds of these sinful cowboys, fearing worse than disgrace 
to one so beautiful and so good as you, I could not do less 
than marry you truly. At least you should be his wife. 
So I married you, truly, in the service of my church.” 

“My God!” cried Madeline, rising. 

“Hear me! I implore you, Senora, hear me out! 
not leave me! Do not look so — so — Ah, Senora, let me 
speak a word for Senor Stewart. He was drunk that night. 
He did not know what he was about. In the morning he 
came to me, made me swear by my cross that I would not 
reveal the disgrace he had put upon you. If I did he 
would kill me. Life is nothing to the American voqueroy 
Senora. I promised to respect his command. But I did 
not tell him you were his wife. He did not dream I had 
truly married you. He went to fight for the freedom of 
my country — Senora, he is one splendid soldier — ^and I 
brooded over the sin of my secret. If he were killed I 
need never tell you. But if he lived I knew that I must 
some day. 

“Strange indeed that Senor Stewart and Padre Marcos 
should both come to this ranch together. The great 
change your goodness wrought in my beloved people was 
no greater than the change in Senor Stewart. Senora, I 
feared you would go away one day, go back to your East- 


338 iHE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

era home, ignorant of the truth. The time came when I 
confessed to Stewart — said I must tell you. Senor, the 
man went mad with joy. I have never seen so supreme 
a joy. He threatened no more to kill me! That strong, 
cruel vaquero begged me not to tell the secret — never to 
reveal it. He confessed his love for you — a love something 
like the desert storm. He swore by all that was once 
sacred to him, and by my cross and my church, that he 
would be a good man, that he would be worthy to have you 
secretly his wife for the little time life left him to worship 
at your shrine. You needed never to know. So I held 
my tongue, half pitying him, half fearing him, and pray- 
ing for some God-sent light. 

“Sefiora, it was a fool’s paradise that Stewart lived in. 
I saw him often. When he took me up into the motm- 
tains to have me marry that wajrward Bonita and her 
lover I came to have respect for a man whose ideas about 
nature and life and God were at a variance with mine. 
But the man is a worshiper of God in all material things. 
He is a part of the wind and sun and desert and mountain 
that have made him. I have never heard more beautiful 
words than those in which he persuaded Bonita to accept 
Senor Mains, to forget her old lovers, and henceforth to 
be happy. He is their friend. I wish I could tell you 
what that means. It sounds so simple. It is really 
simple. All great things are so. For Senor Stewart it 
was natural to be loyal to his friend, to have a fine sense 
of the honor due to a woman who had loved and given, 
to bring about their marriage, to succor them in their 
need and loneliness. It was natural for him never to 
speak of them. It would have been natural for him to 
give his life in their defense if peril menaced them. 
Senora, I want you to understand that to me the man has 
the same stability, the same strength, the same elements 
which I am in the habit of attributing to the physical 
life around me in this wild and rugged desert.” 

Madeline listened as one under a spell. It was not only 
that this soft-voiced, eloquent priest knew how to move 


THE SECRET TOLD 


339 

the heart, stir the soul; but his defense, his praise of 
Stewart, if they had been couched in the crude speech 
of cowboys, would have been a glory to her 

“Senora, I pray you, do not misunderstand my mission. 
Beyond my confession to you I have only a duty to tell 
you of the man whose wife you are. But I am a priest 
and I can read the soul. The ways of God are inscrutable. 
I am only a humble instrument. You are a noble woman, 
and Senor Stewart is a man of desert iron forged anew in 
the crucible of love. Quien sabef Senor Stewart swore 
he would kill me if I betrayed him But he will not lift 
his hand against me. For the man bears you a very great 
and pure love, and it has changed him. I no longer fear 
his threat, but I do fear his anger, should he ever know 
I spoke of his love, of his fool’s paradise. I have watched 
his dark face turned to the sun setting over the desert. 
I have watched him lift it to the light of the stars. Think, 
my gracious and noble lady, think what is his paradise? 
To love you above the spirit of the flesh; to know you 
are his wife, his, never to be another’s except by his 
sacrifice; to watch you mth a secret glory of joy and 
pride; to stand, while he might, between you and evil; 
to find his happiness in service; to wait, with never a 
dream of telling you, for the hour to come when to leave 
you free he must go out and get himself shot! Senora, 
that is beautiful, it is sublime, it is terrible. It has 
brought me to you with my confession. I repeat, Senora, 
the ways of God are inscrutable. What is the meaning of 
your influence upon Senor Stewart ? Once he was merely 
an animal, brutal, unquickened; now he is a man — I have 
not seen his like! SoT beseech you in my humble office 
as priest, as a lover of mankind, before you send Stewart 
to his death, to be sure there is here no mysterious dis- 
pensation of God. Love, that mighty and blessed and 
unknown thing, might be at work. Senora, I have heard 
that somewhere in the rich Eastern cities you are a very 
great lady. I know you are good and noble. That is 
all I want to know. To me you are only a woman, the 


340 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

same as Senor Stewart is only a man. So I pray you, 
Senora, before you let Stewart give you freedom at such 
cost be sure you do not want his love, lest you cast away 
something sweet and ennobling which you yourself have 
created.” 


341 


XXIII 

THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

B linded, like a wild creature, Madeline Hammond 
ran to her room. She felt as if a stroke of hghtning 
had shattered the shadowy substance of the dream she 
had made of real life. The wonder of Danny Mains ’s 
story, the strange regret with which she had realized her 
injustice to Stewart, the astounding secret as revealed by 
Padre Marcos — these were forgotten in the sudden con- 
sciousness of her own love. 

Madeline fled as if pursued. With trembling hands she 
locked the doors, drew the blinds of the windows that 
opened on the porch, pushed chairs aside so that she 
could pace the length of her room. She was now alone, 
and she walked with soft, hurried, uneven steps. She 
could be herself here; she needed no mask ; the long habit 
of serenely hiding the truth from the world and from her- 
self could be broken. The seclusion of her darkened 
chamber made possible that betrayal of herself to which 
she was impelled. 

She paused in her swift pacing to and fro. She liberated 
the thought that knocked at the gates of her mind. With 
quivering lips she whispered it. Then she spoke aloud: 
“I will say it — ^hear it. I — I love him!" 

“I love him!” she repeated the astounding truth, but 
she doubted her identity. 

‘ ‘ Am I still Madeline Hammond ? What has happened ? 
Who am I?” She stood where the light from one un- 
closed window fell upon her image in the mirror. ‘‘Who 
is this woman?”. 


3 42 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

She expected to see a familiar, dignified person, a quiet, 
unruffled figure, a tranquil face with dark, proud eyes 
and calm, proud lips. No, she did not see Madeline 
Hammond. She did not see any one she knew. Were 
her eyes, like her heart, playing her false? The figure 
before her was instinct with pulsating life. The hands 
she saw, clasped together, pressed deep into a swelling 
bosom that heaved with each panting breath. The face 
she saw — white, rapt, strangely glowing, with parted, 
quivering lips, with great, staring, tragic eyes — this 
could not be Madeline Hammond’s face. 

Yet as she looked she knew no fancy could really de- 
ceive her, that she was only Madeline Hammond come at 
last to the end of brooding dreams. She swiftly realized 
the change in her, divined its cause and meaning, accepted 
it as inevitable, and straightway fell back again into the 
mood of bewildering amaze. 

Calmness was unattainable. The surprise absorbed her. 
She could not go back to count the innumerable, imper- 
ceptible steps of her undoing. Her old power of reflect- 
ing, analyzing, even thinking at all, seemed to have 
vanished in a pulse-stirring sense of one new emotion. 
She only felt all her instinctive outward action that was 
a physical relief, all her involuntary inner strife that was 
maddening, yet unutterably sweet; and they seemed to 
be just one bewildering effect of surprise. 

In a nature like hers, where strength of feeling had 
long been inhibited as a matter of training, such a trans- 
forming surprise as sudden consciousness of passion- 
ate love required time for its awakening, time for its 
sway. 

By and by that last enlightening moment came, and 
Madeline Hamrnond faced not only the love in her heart, 
but the thought of the man she loved. 

Suddenly, as she raged, something in her — this daunt- 
less new personality — took arms against indictment 
of Gene Stewart. Her mind whirled about him and his life. 
She saw him drunk, brutal; she saw him abandoned, lost. 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 343 

Then out of the picture she had of him thus slowly grew 
one of a different man — weak, sick, changed by shock, 
growing strong, strangely, spiritually altered, silent, lone- 
ly like an eagle, secretive, tireless, faithful, soft as a 
woman, hard as iron to endure, and at the last noble. 

She softened. In a flash her complex mood changed to 
one wherein she thought of the truth, the beauty, the 
wonder of Stewart’s uplifting. Humbly she trusted that 
she had helped him to climb. That influence had been 
the best she had ever exerted. It had wrought magic in 
her own character. By it she had reached some higher, 
nobler plane of trust in man. She had received infinitely 
more than she had given. 

Her swiftly fl3dng memory seemed to assort a vast 
mine of treasures of the past. Of that letter Stewart had 
written to her brother she saw vivid words. But ah! 
she had known, and if it had not made any difference 
then, now it made all in the world. She recalled how her 
loosened hair had blown across his lips that night he had 
ridden down from the mountains carrying her in his 
arms. She recalled the strange joy of pride in Stewart’s 
eyes when he had suddenly come upon her dressed to 
receive her Eastern guests in the white gown with the 
red roses at her breast. 

Swiftly as they had come these dreamful memories 
departed. There was to be no rest for her mind. All 
she had thought and felt seemed only to presage a tumult. 

Heedless, desperate, she cast off the last remnant of 
self-control, turned from the old proud, pale, cold, self- 
contained ghost of herself to face this strange, strong, 
passionate woman. Then, with hands pressed to her 
beating heart, with eyes shut, she listened to the ringing 
trip-hammer voice of circumstance, of truth, of fatality. 
The whole story was revealed, simple enough in the sum 
of its complicated details, strange and beautiful in part, 
rem.orseless in its proof of great love on Stewart’s side, 
in dreaming blindness on her own, and, from the first fatal 
moment to the last, prophetic of tragedy. 


344 the light of western stars 

Madeline, like a prisoner in a cell, began again to pace 
to and fro. 

‘‘ Oh, it is all terrible !” she cried. “ I am his wife. His 
wife! That meeting with him — ^the marriage — ^then his 
fall, his love, his rise, his silence, his pride! And I can 
never be anything to him. Could I be anything to him? 
I, Madeline Hammond? But I am his wife, and I love 
him! His wife! I am the wife of a cowboy ! That might 
be undone. Can my love be undone? Ah, do I want 
anything xmdone? He is gone. Gone! Could he have 
meant — I will not, dare not think of that. He will 
come back. No, he never will come back. Oh, what 
shall I do?” 

For Madeline Hammond the days following that storm 
of feeling were leaden-footed, endless, hopeless — o. long 
succession of weary hours, sleepless hours, passionate 
hours, all haunted by a fear slowly growing into tortme, 
a fear that Stewart had crossed the border to invite the 
bullet which would give her freedom. The day came 
when she knew this to be true. The spiritual tidings 
reached her, not subtly as so many divinations had come, 
but in a clear, vital flash of certainty. Then she suffered. 
She burned inwardly, and the nature of that deep fire 
showed through her eyes. She kept to herself, waiting, 
waiting for her fears to be confirmed. 

At times she broke out in wrath at the circumstances 
she had failed to control, at herself, at Stewart. 

“He might have learned from Ambrose!” she exclaimed, 
sick with a bitterness she knew was not consistent with 
her pride. She recalled Christine’s trenchant exposition i 
of Ambrose’s wooing: “He tell me he love me; he kees 
me; he hug me; he put me on his horse; he ride away 
with me; he marry me.” 

Then in the next breath Madeline denied this insistent 
clamoring of a love that was gradually breaking her 
spirit. Like a somber shadow remorse followed her, 
shading blacker. She had been blind to a man’s honesty. 


THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 345 

manliness, uprightness, faith, and striving. She had been 
dead, to love, to nobility that she had herself created. 
Padre Marcos’s grave, wise words returned to haunt her. 
She fought her bitterness, scorned her intelligence, hated 
her pride, and, weakening, gave up more and more to a 
yearning, hopeless hope. 

She had shunned the light of the stars as she had vio- 
lently dismissed every hinting suggestive memory of 
Stewart’s kisses. But one night she went deliberately 
to her wdndow. There they shone. Her stars! Beauti- 
ful, passionless as always, but strangely closer, warmer, 
speaking a kinder language, helpful as they had never 
been, teaching her now that regret was futile, revealing 
to her in their one grand, blazing task the supreme duty 
of life — ^to be true. 

Those shining stars made her yield. She whispered to 
them that they had claimed her — the West claimed her — 
Stewart claimed her forever, whether he lived or died. 
She gave up to her love. And it was as if he was there in 
person, dark-faced, fire-eyed, violent in his action, crush- 
ing her to his breast in that farewell moment, kissing her 
with one burning kiss of passion, then with cold, terrible 
lips of renunciation. 

“I am your wife!” she whispered to him. In that mo- 
ment, throbbing, exalted, quivering in her first sweet, 
tumultuous surrender to love, she would have given her 
all, her life, to be in his arms again, to meet his lips, to 
put forever out of his power any thought of wild sacrifice. 

And on the morning of the next day, when Madeline 
went out upon the porch, Stillwell, haggard and stern, 
with a husky, incoherent word, handed her a message 
from El Cajon. She read: 

El Capitan Stewart captured by rebel soldiers in fight at 
Agua Prieta yesterday. He was a sharpshooter in the Federal 
ranks. Sentenced to death Thursday at sunset. 


346 


XXIV 

THE RIDE 


OTILLWELL!’’ 

O Madeline’s cry was more than the utterance of 
a breaking heart. It was full of agony. But also it 
uttered the shattering of a structure built of false pride, 
of old beliefs, of bloodless standards, of ignorance of self. 
It betrayed the final conquest of her doubts, and out of 
their darkness blazed the unquenchable spirit of a woman 
who had found herself, her love, her salvation, her duty 
to a man, and who would not be cheated. 

The old cattleman stood mute before her, staring at 
her white face, at her eyes of flame. 

“Stillwell! I am Stewart’s wife!” 

“My Gawd, Miss Majesty!’’ he burst out. “I knowed 
somethin’ turrible was wrong. Aw, siure it’s a pity — ” 

“Do you think I’ll let him be shot when I know him 
now, when I’m no longer blind, when I dove him?’’ she 
asked, with passionate swiftness. “I will save him. 
This is Wednesday morning. I have thirty-six hours to 
save his life. Stillwell, send for Link and the car!” 

She went into her office. Her mind worked with ex- 
traordinary rapidity and clearness. Her plan, bom in 
one lightning-like flash of thought, necessitated the care- 
ful wording of telegrams to Washington, to New York, 
to San Antonio. These were to Senators, Representatives, 
men high in public and private life, men who would re- 
member her and who would serve her to their utmost. 
Never before had her position meant anything to her 
comparable with what it meant now. Never in all her 
life had money seemed the power that it was then. If 
she had been poor! A shuddering chill froze the thought 


THE RIDE 


347 

at its inception. She dispelled heartbreaking thoughts. 
She had power. She had wealth. She would set into 
operation all the unlimited means these gave her — the 
wires and pulleys and strings underneath the surface of 
political and international life, the open, free, purchasing 
value of money or the deep, underground, mysterious, in- 
calculably powerful influence moved by gold. She could 
save Stewart. She must await results — deadlocked in 
feeling, strained perhaps almost beyond endurance, be- 
cause the suspense would be great; but she would allow 
no possibility of failure to enter her mind. 

When she went outside the c^r was there with Link, 
helmet in hand, a cool, bright gleam in his eyes, and with 
Stillwell, losing his haggard misery, beginning to respond 
to Madeline’s spirit. 

“Link, drive Stillwell to El Cajon in time for him to 
catch the El Paso train,” she said. “Wait there for his 
return, and if any message comes from him, telephone 
it at once to me.” 

Then she gave Stillwell the telegrams to send from El 
Cajon and drafts to cash in El Paso. She instructed him 
to go before the rebel junta, then stationed at Juarez, to 
explain the situation, to bid them expect communications 
from Washington officials requesting and advising Stew- 
art’s exchange as a prisoner of war, to offer to buy his 
release from the rebel authorities. 

When Stillwell had heard her through his huge, bowed 
form straightened, a ghost of his old smile just moved 
his lips. He was no longer young, and hope could not 
at once drive away stern and grim realities. As he bent 
over her hand his manner appeared courtly and reverent. 
But either he was speechless or felt the moment not one 
for him to break silence. 

He climbed to a seat beside Link, who pocketed the 
watch he had been studying and leaned over the wheel. 
There was a crack, a muffled sound bursting into a roar, 
and the big car jerked forward to bound over the edge 
of the slope, to leap down the long incline, to shoot out 


348 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

upon the level valley floor and disappear in- moving 
dust. 

For the first time in dsiys Madeline visited the gardens, 
the corrals, the lakes, the quarters of the cowboys. Though 
imagining she was calm, she feared she looked strange to 
Nels, to Nick, to Frankie Slade, to those boys best known 
to her. The situation for them must have been one of 
tormenting pain and bewilderment. They acted as if 
they wanted to say something to her, but found them- 
selves spellbound. She wondered — did they know she 
was Stewart’s wife? Stillwell had not had time to tell 
them; besides, he would not have mentioned the fact. 
These cowboys only knew that Stewart was sentenced to 
be shot ; they knew if Madeline had not been angry with 
him he would not have gone in desperate fighting mood 
across the border. She spoke of the weather, of the horses 
and cattle, asked Nels when he was to go on duty, and 
turned away from the wide, sunlit, adobe-arched porch 
where the cowboys stood silent and bareheaded. Then 
one of her subtle impulses checked her. 

“Nels, you and Nick need not go on duty to-day,” she 
said. “I may want you. I — I — ” 

She hesitated, paused, and stood lingering there. Her 
glance had fallen upon Stewart’s big black horse prancing 
in a near-by corral. 

“I have sent Stillwell to El Paso,” she went on, in a 
low voice she failed to hold steady. “He will save Stew- 
art. I have to tell you — I am Stewart’s wife!” 

She felt the stricken amaze that made these men silent 
and immovable. With level gaze averted she left them. 
Returning to the house and her room, she prepared for 
something — ^f or what ? To wait 1 

Then a great invisible shadow seemed to hover behind 
her. She essayed many tasks, to fail of attention, to find 
that her mind held only Stewart and his forttmes. Why 
had he become a Federal? She reflected that he had won 
his title, El Capitan, fighting for Madero, the rebel. 
But Madero was now a Federal, and Stewart was true to 


THE RIDE 


349 


him. In crossing the border had Stewart any other 
motive than the one he had implied to Madeline in his 
mocking smile and scornful words, “You might have 
saved me a hell of a lot of trouble !” What trouble? She 
felt again the cold shock of contact with the gtm she had 
dropped in horror. He meant the trouble of getting him- 
self shot in the only way a man could seek death without 
cowardice. But had he any other motive? She recalled 
Don Carlos and his guerrillas. Then the thought leaped 
up in her mind with gripping power that Stewart meant 
to hunt Don Carlos, to meet him, to kill him. It would 
be the deed of a silent, vengeful, implacable man driven by 
wild justice such as had been the deadly leaven in Monty 
Price. It was a deed to expect of Nels or Nick Steel — 
and, aye, of Gene Stewart. Madeline felt regret that Stew- 
art, as he had climbed so high, had not risen above delib- 
erate seeking to kill his enemy, however evil that enemy. 

The local newspapers, which came regularly a day late 
from El Paso and Douglas, had never won any particular 
interest from Madeline; now, however, she took up any 
copies she could find and read all the information pertain- 
ing to the revolution. Every word seemed vital to her, 
of moving significant force. 

AMERICANS ROBBED BY MEXICAN REBELS 

Madera, State oe Chihuahua, Mexico, July 17. — Having^ 
looted the Madera Lumber Company’s storehouses of $25,000 
worth of goods and robbed scores of foreigners of horses and sad- 
dles, the rebel command of Gen. Antonio Rojas, comprising a 
thousand men, started westward to-day through the state of 
Sonora for Aguaymas and Pacific coast points. 

The troops are headed for Dolores, where a mountain pass 
leads into the state of Sonora. Their entrance will be opposed 
by 1,000 Maderista voltmteers, who are reported to be waiting 
the rebel invasion. 

The railroad south of Madera is being destroyed and many 
Americans who were traveling to Chihuahua from Juarez are 
marooned here. 

General Rojas executed five men while here for alleged of- 


350 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

fenses of a trivial character. Gen. Rosalio y Hernandez, Lieut. 
Cipriano Amador, and three soldiers were the unfortimates. 

Washington, July 17. — Somewhere in Mexico Patrick Dunne, 
an American citizen, is in prison under sentence of death. This 
much and no more the State Department learned through 
Representative Kinkaid of Nebraska. Consular officers in 
various sections of Mexico have been directed to make every 
effort to locate Dunne and save his life. 


Juarez, Mexico, July 31. — General Orozco, chief of the rebels, 
declared to-day: 

“If the United States will throw down the barriers and let 
us have all the ammunition we can buy, I promise in sixty days 
to have peace restored in Mexico and a stable government in 
charge.” 


Casas Grandes, Chihuahua, July 31. — Rebel soldiers looted 
many homes of Mormons near here yesterday. All the Mor- 
mon families have fled to El Paso. Although General Salazar 
had two of his soldiers executed yesterday for robbing Mor- 
mons, he has not made any attempt to stop his men looting 
the unprotected homes of Americans. 

Last night’s and to-day’s trains carried many Americans from 
Pearson, Madera, and other localities outside the Mormon 
settlements. Refugees from IMexico continued to pour into 
El Paso. About one hundred came last night, the majority of 
whom were men. Heretofore few men came. 

Madeline read on in feverish absorption. It was not 
a real war, but a starving, robbing, burning, hopeless 
revolution. Five men executed for alleged offenses of a 
trivial nature! What chance had, then, a Federal prisoner, 
an enemy to be feared, an American cowboy in the clutches 
of those crazed rebels? 

Madeline endured patiently, endured for long intermina- 
ble hours while holding to her hope with indomitable will. 

No message came. At sunset she went outdoors, suf- 
fering a torment of accumulating suspense. She faced 
the desert, hoping, praying for strength. The desert did 


THE RIDE 


351 


not influence her as did the passionless, unchangeable 
stars that had soothed her spirit. It was red, mutable, 
shrouded in shadows, terrible like her mood. A dust- 
veiled sunset colored the vast, brooding, naked waste of 
rock and sand. The grim Chiricahua frowned black and 
sinister. The dim blue domes of the Guadalupes seemed 
to whisper, to beckon to her. Beyond them somewhere 
was Stewart, awaiting the end of a few brief hours — ^hours 
that to her were boundless, endless, insupportable. 

Night fell. But now the white, pitiless stars failed her. 
Then she sought the seclusion and darkness of her room, 
there to lie with wide eyes, waiting, waiting. She had 
always been susceptible to the somber, mystic unrealities 
of the night, and now her mind slowly revolved round a 
vague and monstrous gloom. Nevertheless, she was 
acutely sensitive to outside impressions. She heard the 
measured tread of a guard, the rustle of wind stirring the 
window-curtain, the remote, mournful wail of a coyote. 
By and by the dead silence of the night insulated her 
with leaden oppression. There was silent darkness for 
so long that when the window casements showed gray 
she believed it was only fancy and that dawn would never 
come. She prayed for the sun not to rise, not to begin 
its short twelve-hour journey toward what might be a 
fatal setting for Stewart. But the dawn did lighten, 
swiftly she thought, remorselessly. Daylight had broken, 
and this was Thursday! 

Sharp ringing of the telephone bell startled her, roused 
her into action. She ran to answer the call. 

“Hello — hello — Miss Majesty!” came the hurried reply. 
“This 's Link talkin’. Messages for you. Favorable, the 
operator said. I’m to ride out with them. I’ll come 
a-htimmin’.” 

That was all. Madeline heard the bang of the receiver 
as Stevens threw it down. She passionately wanted to 
know more, but was immeasurably grateful for so much! 
Favorable! Then Stillwell had been successful. Her 
heart leaped. - Suddenly she became weak and her hands 


352 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

failed of their accustomed morning deftness. It took her 
what seemed a thousand years to dress. Breakfast meant 
nothing to her except that it helped her to pass dragging 
minutes. 

Finally a low hum, mounting swiftly to a roar and end- 
ing with a sharp report, announced the arrival of the car. 
If her feet had kept pace with her heart she would have 
raced out to meet Link. She saw him, helmet thrown 
back, watch in hand, and he looked up at her with his 
cool, bright smile, with his familiar apologetic manner. 

“Fifty-three minutes. Miss Majesty,” he said, “but I 
hed to ride rotmd a herd of steers an’ bump a couple off 
the trail.” 

He gave her a packet of telegrams. Madeline tore 
them open with shaking fingers, began to read with swift, 
dim eyes. Some were from Washington, assuring her of 
every possible service; some were from New York; others 
written in Spanish were from El Paso, and these she could 
not wholly translate in a brief glance. Would she never 
find Stillwell’s message? It was the last. It was lengthy. 
It read: 

Bought Stewart’s release. Also arranged for his transfer as 
prisoner of war. Both matters official. He’s safe if we can 
get notice to his captors. Not sure I’ve reached them by wire. 
Afraid to trust it. You go with Link to Agua Prieta. Take the 
meS^ges sent you in Spanish. They will protect you and se- 
cure Stewart’s freedom. Take Nels with you. Stop for noth- 
ing. Tell Link all — trust him — ^let him drive that car. 

Stillwell 

The first few lines of Stillwell’s message lifted Madeline 
to the heights of thanksgiving and happiness. Then, 
reading on, she experienced a check, a munb, icy, sick- 
ening pang. At the last line she flung off doubt and 
dread, and in white, cold passion faced the issue. 

“Read,” she said, briefly, handing the telegram to 
Link. He scanned it and then looked blankly up at her. 


THE RIDE 


353 

“Link, do you know the roads, the trails — the desert 
between here and Agua Prieta?” she asked. 

“Thet’s sure my old stampin’-ground. An’ I know 
Sonora, too.” 

“We must reach Agua Prieta before simset — ^long be- 
fore, so if Stewart is in some near-by camp we can get to 
it in — in time.” 

“ Miss Majesty, it ain’t possible !” he exclaimed. “ Still- 
well’s crazy to say thet.” 

“Link, can an automobile be driven from here into 
northern Mexico?” 

“Sure. But it ’d take time.” 

“We must do it in little time,” she went on, in swift 
eagerness. “Otherwise Stewart may be — ^probably will 
be — be shot.” 

Link Stevens appeared suddenly to grow lax, shriveled, 
to lose all his peculiar pert brightness, to weaken and age. 

“I’m only a — a. cowboy. Miss Majesty.” He almost 
faltered. It was a singular change in him. “Thet’s an 
awful ride — down over the border. If by some luck I 
didn’t smash the car I’d turn your hair gray. You’d never 
be no good after thet ride!” 

“I am Stewart’s wife,” she answered him, and she 
looked at him, not conscious of any motive to persuade 
or allure, but just to let him know the greatness of her 
dependence upon him. 

He started violently — the old action of Stewart, the 
memorable action of Monty Price. This man was of the 
same wild breed. 

Then Madeline’s words flowed in a torrent. “I am 
Stewart’s wife. I love him; I have been unjust to him; 
I must save him. Link, I have faith in you. I beseech 
you to do your best for Stewart’s sake — ^for my sake. I’ll 
risk the ride gladly — bravely. I’ll not care where or how 
you drive. I’d far rather plunge into a canon — go to my 
death on the rocks — than not try to save Stewart.” 

How beautiful the response of this rude cowboy — to 
realize his absolute unconsciousness of self, to see the 


354 the light of western stars 

haggard shade bum out of his face, the old, cool, devil- 
may-care spirit return to his eyes, and to feel something 
wonderful about him then! It was more than will or 
daring or sacrifice. A blood-tie might have existed be- 
tween him and Madeline. She sensed again that inde- 
finable brother-like quality, so fine, so almost invisible, 
which seemed to be an inalienable trait in these wild 
cowboys. 

“Miss Majesty, thet ride figgers impossible, but I’ll 
do it!” he replied. His cool, bright glance thrilled her. 
“Ill need mebbe half an hour to go over the car an’ to 
pack on what I’ll want.” 

She could not thank him, and her reply was merely a 
request that he tell Nels and other cowboys off duty to 
come up to the house. When Link had gone Madeline 
gave a moment’s thought to preparations for the ride. 
She placed what money she had and the telegrams in a 
satchel. The gown she had on was thin and white, not 
suitable for travel, but she would not risk the losing of 
one moment in changing it. She put on a long coat and 
wound veils round her head and neck, arranging them in 
a hood so she could cover her face when necessary. She 
remembered to take an extra pair of goggles for Nels’s 
use, and then, drawing on her gloves, she went out ready 
for the ride. 

A number of cowboys were waiting. She explained the 
situation and left them in charge of her home. With 
that she asked Nels to accompany her down into the 
desert. He turned white to his lips, and this occasioned 
Madeline to remember his mortal dread of the car and 
Link’s driving. 

“ Nels, I’m sorry to ask you,” she added. “ I know you 
hate the car. But I need you — ^may need you, oh! so 
much.” 

“Why, Miss Majesty, thet’s shore all a mistaken idee 
of yours about me hatin’ the car,” he said, in his slow, soft 
drawl. “I was only jealous of Link; an’ the boys, they 
made thet joke up on me about bein’ scared of ridin’ fast. 


THE RIDE 


355 

Shore I’m powerful proud to go. An’ I reckon if you 
hedn’t asked me my feelin’s might hev been some hurt. 
Because if you’re goin’ down among the Greasers you want 
me. 

His cool, easy speech, his familiar swagger, the smile 
with which he regarded her did not in the least deceive 
Madeline. The gray was still in his face. Incompre- 
hensible as it seemed, Nels had a dread, an uncanny 
fear, and it was of that huge white automobile. But 
he lied about it. Here again was that strange quality 
of faithfulness. 

Madeline heard the buzz of the car. Link appeared, 
driving up the slope. He made a short, sliding turn and 
stopped before the porch. Link had tied two long, heavy 
planks upon the car, one on each side, and in every 
available space he had strapped extra tires. A huge cask 
occupied one back seat, and another seat was full of tools 
and ropes. There was just room in this rear part of the 
car for Nels to squeeze in. Link put Madeline in front 
beside him, then bent over the wheel. Madeline waved 
her hand at the silent cowboys on the porch. Not an 
audible good-by was spoken. 

The car glided out of the yard, leaped from level to 
slope, and started swiftly down the road, out into the 
open valley. Each stronger rush of dry wind in Made- 
line’s face marked the increase of speed. She took one 
glance at the winding cattle-road, smooth, unobstructed, 
disappearing in the gray of distance. She took another 
at the leather-garbed, leather-helmeted , driver beside 
her, and then she drew the hood of veils over her face and 
fastened it round her neck so there was no possibility of 
its blowing loose. 

Harder and stronger pressed the wind till it was like 
sheeted lead forcing her back in her seat. There was a 
ceaseless, intense, inconceivably rapid vibration under 
her; occasionally she felt a long swing, as if she were to 
be propelled aloft; but no jars disturbed the easy celerity 
ot the car. The buzz, the roar of wheels, of heavy body 


3 s 6 the light of WESTERN STARS 

in flight, increased to a continuous droning hum. The 
wind became an insupportable body moving toward her, 
crushing her breast, making the task of breathing most 
difficult. To Madeline the time seemed to fly with the 
speed of miles. A moment came when she detected a 
faint difference in hum and rush and vibration, in the 
ceaseless sweeping of the invisible weight against her. 
This difference became marked. Link was reducing speed. 
Then came swift change of all sensation, and she realized 
the car had slowed to normal travel. 

Madeline removed her hood and goggles. It was a re- 
lief to breathe freely, to be able to use her eyes. To her 
right, not far distant, lay the little town of Chiricahua. 
Sight of it made her remember Stewart in a way strange 
to her constant thought of him. To the left inclined the 
gray valley. The red desert was hidden from view, but 
the Guadalupe Mountains loomed close in the southwest. 

Opposite Chiricahua, where the road forked, Link 
Stevens headed the car straight south and gradually in- 
creased speed. Madeline faced another endless gray in- 
cline. It was the San Bernardino Valley. The singing 
of the car, the stinging of the wind warned her to draw 
the hood securely down over her face again, and then it 
was as if she was riding at night. The car lurched ahead, 
settled into that driving speed which wedged Madeline 
back as in a vise. Again the moments went by fleet as 
the miles. Seemingly, there was an acceleration of the 
car till it reached a certain swiftness — 3 . period of time in 
which it held that pace, and then a diminishing of all 
motion and sound which contributed to Madeline’s acute 
sensation. Uncovering her face, she saw Link was pass- 
ing another village. Could it be Bernardino? She asked 
Link — ^repeated the question. 

‘ ‘ Sure, ’ ’ he replied. ‘ ‘ Eighty miles. ’ ’ 

Link did not this time apologize for the work of his 
machine. Madeline marked the omission with her first 
thrill of the ride. Leaning over, she glanced at Link’s 
watch, which he had fastened upon the wheel in front 


THE RIDE 


357 

of his eyes. A quarter to ten! Link had indeed made 
short work of the valley miles. 

Beyond Bernardino Link sheered off the road and put 
the car to a long, low-rising slope. Here the valley ap- 
peared to run south under the dark brows of the Guada- 
lupes. Link was heading southwest. Madeline ob- 
served that the grass began to fail as they climbed the 
ridge; bare, white, dusty spots appeared; there were 
patches of mesquite and cactus and scattering areas of 
broken rock. 

She might have been prepared for what she saw from 
the ridge-top. Beneath them the desert blazed. Seen 
from afar, it was striking enough, but riding down into its 
red jaws gave Madeline the first affront to her imperious 
confidence. All about her ranch had been desert, the 
valleys were desert; but this was different. Here began 
the red desert, extending far into Mexico, far across 
Arizona and California to the Pacific. She saw a bare, 
hummocky ridge, down which the car was gliding, bound- 
ing, swinging, and this long slant seemed to merge into 
a corrugated world of rock and sand, patched by fiats 
and basins, streaked with canons and ranges of ragged, 
saw-toothed stone. The distant Sierra Madres were 
clearer, bluer, less smoky and suggestive of mirage than 
she had ever seen them. Madeline’s sustaining faith up- 
held her in the face of this appalling obstacle. Then the 
desert that had rolled its immensity beneath her gradually 
began to rise, to lose its distant margins, to condense its 
varying lights and shades, at last to hide its yawning 
depths and looming heights behind red ridges, which 
were only little steps, little outposts, little landmarks at 
its gates. 

The bouncing of the huge car, throwing Madeline up, 
directed her attention and fastened it upon the way Link 
Stevens was driving and upon the immediate foreground. 
Then she discovered that he was following an old wagon- 
road. At the foot of that long slope they struck into 
rougher ground, and here Link took to a cautious zig- 


358 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

zag course. The wagon-road disappeared and then 
presently reappeared. But Link did not always hold to 
it. He made cuts, detours, crosses, and all the time 
seemed to be getting deeper into a maze of low, red dunes, 
of flat canon-beds lined by banks of gravel, of ridges 
mounting higher. Yet Link Stevens kept on and never 
turned back. He never headed into a place that he could 
not pass. Up to this point of travel he had not been 
compelled to back the car, and Madeline began to realize 
that it was the cowboy’s wonderful judgment of groimd 
that made advance possible. He knew the country; he 
was never at a loss; after making a choice of direction, he 
never hesitated. 

Then at the bottom of a wide canon he entered a wash 
where the wheels just barely turned in dragging sand. 
The sun beat down white-hot, the dust arose, there was 
not a breath of wind; and no sound save the slide of a 
rock now and then down the weathered slopes and the 
labored chugging of the machine. The snail pace, like 
the sand at the wheels, began to drag at Madeline’s faith. 
Link gave over the wheel to Madeline, and, leaping out, 
he called Nels. When they untied the long planks and 
laid them straight in front for the wheels to pass over 
Madeline saw how wise had been Link’s forethought. 
With the aid of those planks they worked the car through 
sand and gravel otherwise impossible to pass. 

This canon widened and opened into space affording 
an unobstructed view for miles. The desert sloped up in 
steps, and in the morning light, with the sun bright on 
the mesas and escarpments, it was gray, drab, stone, slate, 
yellow, pink, and, dominating all, a dull rust-red. There 
was level ground ahead, a wind-swept floor as hard as 
rock. Link rushed the car over this free distance. Made- 
line’s ears filled with a droning hum like the sound of a 
monstrous, hungry bee and with a strange, incessant 
crinkle which she at length guessed to be the spreading 
of sheets of gravel from under the wheels. The giant car 
attained such a speed that Madeline could only distin- 


THE RIDE 


359 

guish the colored landmarks to the fore, and these faded 
as the wind stung her eyes. 

Then Link began the ascent of the first step, a long, 
sweeping, barren waste with dunes of wonderful violet and 
heliotrope hues. Here were well-defined marks of an old 
wagon-road lately traversed by cattle. The car climbed 
steadily, surmounted the height, faced another long bench 
that had been cleaned smooth by desert winds. The sky 
was an intense, light, steely blue, hard on the eyes. Made- 
line veiled her face, and did not uncover it until Link had 
reduced the racing speed. From the summit of the next 
ridge she saw more red ruin of desert. 

A deep wash crossing the road caused Link Stevens 
to turn due south. There was a narrow space along the 
wash just wide enough for the car. Link seemed oblivious 
to the fact that the outside wheels were perilously close 
to the edge. Madeline heard the rattle of loosened gravel 
and earth sliding into the gully The wash widened and 
opened out into a sandy flat. Link crossed this and turned 
up on the opposite side. Rocks impeded the progress of 
the car, and these had to be rolled out of the way. The 
shelves of silt, apparently ready to slide with the slightest 
weight, the little tributary washes, the boulder-strewn 
stretches of slope, the narrow spaces allowing no more 
than a foot for the outside wheels, the spear-pointed cactus 
that had to be avoided — all these obstacles were as noth- 
ing to the cowboy driver. He kept on, and when he came 
to the road again he made up for the lost time by speed. 

Another height was reached, and here Madeline fancied 
that Link had driven the car to the summit of a high pass 
between two mountain ranges. The western slope of 
that pass appeared to be exceedingly rough and broken. 
Below it spread out another gray vall.y, at the extreme 
end of which glistened a white spot that Link grimly 
called Douglas. Part of that white spot was Agua Prieta, 
the sister town across the line. Madeline looked with eyes 
that would fain have pierced the intervening distance. 

The descent of the pass began under difficulties. Sharp 


36 o the light of WESTERN STARS 

stones and cactus spikes penetrated the front tires, burst- 
ing them with ripping reports. It took time to replace 
them. The planks were called into requisition to cross 
soft places. A jagged point of projecting rock had to be 
broken with a sledge. At length a huge stone appeared 
to hinder any further advance. Madeline caught her 
breath. There was no room to turn the car. But Link 
Stevens had no intention of such a thing. He backed the 
car to a considerable distance, then walked forward. He 
appeared to be busy around the boulder for a moment 
and returned down the road on the run. A heavy ex- 
plosion, a cloud of dust, and a rattle of falling fragments 
told Madeline that her indomitable driver had cleared a 
passage with dynamite. He seemed to be prepared for 
every emergency. Madeline looked to see what effect 
the discovery of Link carrying dynamite would have 
upon the silent Nels. 

“Shore, now. Miss Majesty, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ 
to stop Link,” said Nels, with a reassuring smile. The 
si^ificance of the incident had not dawned upon Nels, 
or else he was heedless of it. After all, he was afraid only 
of the car and Link, and that fear was an idiosyncrasy. 
Madeline began to see her cowboy driver with clearer 
eyes and his spirit awoke something in her that made 
danger of no moment. Nels likewise subtly responded, 
and, though he was gray-faced, tight-lipped, his eyes took 
on the cool, bright gleam of Link’s. 

Cactus barred the way, rocks barred the way, gullies 
barred the way, and these Nels addressed in the grim 
humor with which he was wont to view tragic things. A 
mistake on Link’s part, a slip of a wheel, a bursting of a 
tire at a critical moment, an instant of the bad luck which 
might happen a hundred times on a less perilous ride — 
any one of these might spell disaster for the car, perhaps 
death to the occupants. Again and again Link used the 
planks to cross washes in sand. Sometimes the wheels 
ran all the length of the planks, sometimes slipped off. 
Presently Link came to a ditch where water had worn 


THE RIDE 


361 

deep into the road. Without hesitation he placed them, 
measuring distance carefully, and then started across. 
The danger was in ditching the machine. One of the 
planks split, sagged a little, but Link made the crossing 
without a slip. 

The road led round under an overhanging cliff and was 
narrow, rocky, and slightly downhill. Bidding Madeline 
and Nels walk round this hazardous comer, Link drove 
the car. Madeline expected to hear it crash down into 
the canon, but presently she saw Link waiting to take 
them aboard again. Then came steeper parts of the 
road, places that Link could run down if he had space 
below to control the car, and on the other hand places 
where the little inclines ended in abrupt ledges upon one 
side or a declivity upon the other. Here the cowboy, 
with ropes on the wheels and half-hitches upon the spurs 
of rock, let the car slide down. 

Once at a particularly bad spot Madeline exclaimed, 
involuntarily, “Oh, time is flying!” Link Stevens looked 
up at her as if he had been reproved for his care. His 
eyes shone like the glint of steel on ice. Perhaps that 
utterance of Madeline’s was needed to liberate his reck- 
lessness to its utmost. Certainly he put the car to seem- 
ingly impossible feats. He rimmed gullies, he hurdled 
rising ground, he leaped little breaks in the even road. 
He made his machine cling like a goat to steep inclines; 
he rounded comers with the inside wheels higher than the 
outside; he passed over banks of soft earth that caved 
in the instant he crossed weak places. He kept on and 
on, threading tortuous passages through rock-strewn 
patches, keeping to the old road where it was clear, aban- 
doning it for open spaces, and always going down. 

At length a mile of clean, brown slope, ridged and 
grooved like a washboard, led gently down to meet the 
floor of the valley, where the scant grama-grass stmg- 
gled to give a tinge of gray. The road appeared to become 
more clearly defined, and could be seen striking straight 
across the valley. 


362 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

To Madeline’s dismay, that road led down to a deep, 
narrow wash. It plunged on one side, ascended on the 
other at a still steeper angle. The crossing would have 
been laborsome for a horse; for an automobile it was im- 
passable. Link turned the car to the right along the rim 
and drove as far along the wash as the groimd permitted. 
The gully widened, deepened all the way. Then he took 
the other direction. When he made this turn Madeline 
observed that the sun had perceptibly begun its slant west- 
ward. It shone in her face, glaring and wrathful. Link 
drove back to the road, crossed it, and kept on down the 
line of the wash. It was a deep cut in red earth, worn 
straight down by swift water in the rainy seasons. It nar- 
rowed. In some places it was only five feet wide. Link 
studied these points and looked up the slope, and seemed 
to be making deductions. The valley was level now, and 
there were nothing but little breaks in the rim of the 
wash. Link drove mile after mile, looking for a place to 
cross, and there was none. Finally progress to the south 
was obstructed by impassable gullies where the wash 
plunged into the head of a canon. It was necessary to 
back the car a distance before there was room to turn. 
Madeline looked at the imperturbable driver. His face 
revealed no more than the same old hard, immutable 
character. When he reached the narrowest points, which 
had so interested him, he got out of the car and walked 
from place to place. Once with a little jump he cleared 
the wash. Then Madeline noted that the farther rim 
was soniewhat lower. In a flash she divined Link’s in- 
tention. He was hunting a place to jump the car over 
the crack in the ground. 

Soon he found one that seemed to suit him, for he tied 
his red scarf upon a greasewood-bush. Then, returning 
to the car, he clambered in, and, muttering, broke his long 
silence: “This ain’t no air-ship, but I’ve outfiggered thet 
damn wash.” He backed up the gentle slope and halted 
just short of steeper ground. His red scarf waved in the 
wind. Hunching low over the wheel, he started, slowly 


THE RIDE 


363 

at first, then faster, and then faster. The great car gave 
a spring like a huge tiger. The impact of suddenly formed 
wind almost tore Madeline out of her seat. She felt Nels’s 
powerful hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes. 
The jolting headway of the car gave place to a gliding rush. 
This was broken by a slight jar, and then above the hum 
and roar rose a cowboy yell. Madeline waited with 
strained nerves for the expected crash. It did not come. 
Opening her eyes, she saw the level valley floor without 
a break. She had not even noticed the instant when the 
car had shot over the wash. 

A strange breathlessness attacked her, and she attrib- 
uted it to the celerity with which she was being carried 
along. Pulling the hood down over her face, she sank low 
in the seat. The whir of the car now seemed to be a 
world-filling sound. Again the feeling of excitement, the 
poignancy of emotional heights, the ever-present impend- 
ing sense of catastrophe became held in abeyance to the 
sheer intensity of physical sensations. There came a 
time when all her strength seemed to unite in an effort 
to lift her breast against the terrific force of the wind — to 
draw air into her flattened lungs. She became partly 
dazed. The darkness before her eyes was not all oc- 
casioned by the blood that pressed like a stone mask on 
her face. She had a sense that she was floating, sailing, 
drifting, reeling, even while being borne swiftly as a 
thunderbolt. Her hands and arms were immovable 
under the weight of mountains. There was a long, blank 
period from which she awakened to feel an arm supporting 
her. Then she rallied. The velocity of the car had been 
cut to the speed to which she was accustomed. Throwing 
back the hood, she breathed freely again, recovered fully. 

The car was bowling along a wide road upon the out- 
skirts of a city. Madeline asked what place it could be. 

“Douglas,” replied Link. “An* jest around is Agua 
Prieta!” 

That last name seemed to stun Madeline. She heard 
no more, and saw little until the car stopped. Nels spoke 


364 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

to some one. Then sight of khaki-clad soldiers quickened 
Madehne’s faculties. She was on the boundary-line be- 
tween the United States and Mexico, and Agua Prieta^ 
with its white and blue walled houses, its brown-tiled roofs, 
lay before her. A soldier, evidently despatched by Nels, 
returned and said an officer would come at once. Made- 
line’s attention was centered in the foreground, upon 
the guard over the road, upon the dry, dusty town be- 
yond; but she was aware of noise and people in the rear. 
A cavalry officer approached the car, stared, and removed 
his sombrero. 

“ Can you tell me anything about Stewart, the American 
cowboy who was captured bv rebels a few days ago?” 
asked Madeline. 

“Yes,” replied the officer. “ There was a skirmish over 
the line between a company of Federals and a large force 
of guerrillas and rebels. The Federals were driven west 
along the line. Stewart is reported to have done reckless 
fighting and was captured. He got a Mexican sentence. 
He is known here along the border, and the news of his 
capture stirred up excitement. We did all we could to 
get his release. The guerrillas feared to execute him here, 
and believed he might be aided to escape. So a detach- 
ment departed with him for Mezquital.” 

“He was sentenced to be shot Thursday at sunset — 
to-night?” 

“Yes. It was rumored there was a personal resent- 
ment against Stewart. I regret that I can’t give you defi- 
nite information. If you are friends of Stewart’s — ^rela- 
tives — I might find — ” 

“I am his wife,” interrupted Madeline. “Will you 
please read these.” She handed him the telegrams. 
“Advise me — ^help me, if you can?” 

With a wondering glance at her the officer received the 
telegrams. He read several, and whistled low in amaze. 
His manner became quick, alert, serious. 

“I can’t read these written in Spanish, but I know the 
names signed.” Swiftly he ran through the others. 


THE RIDE 


36s 

“Why, these mean Stewart’s release has been authorized. 
They explain mysterious rumors we have heard here. 
Greaser treachery! For some strange reason messages 
from the rebel junta have failed to reach their destination. 
We heard reports of an exchange for Stewart, but nothing 
came of it. No one departed for Mezquital with authority. 
What an outrage! Come, I’ll go with you to General 
Salazar, the rebel chief in command. I know him. Per- 
haps we can find out something.” 

Nels made room for the officer. Link sent the car 
whirring across the line into Mexican territory. Made- 
line’s sensibilities were now exquisitely alive. The white 
road led into Agua Prieta, a town of colored walls and 
roofs. Goats and pigs and buzzards scattered before the 
roar of the machine. Native women wearing black 
mantles peeped through iron-barred windows Men 
wearing huge sombreros, cotton shirts and trousers, bright 
sashes round their waists, and sandals, stood motionless, 
watching the car go by. The road ended in an immense 
plaza, in the center of which was a circular structure that 
in some measure resembled a corral. It was a bull-ring, 
where the national sport of bull-fighting was carried on. 
Just now it appeared to be quarters for a considerable 
army. Ragged, unkempt rebels were everywhere, and 
the whole square was littered with tents, packs, wagons, 
arms. There were horses, mules, burros, and oxen. 

The place was so crowded that Link was compelled to 
drive slowly up to the entrance to the bull-ring. Madeline 
caught a gKmpse of tents inside, then her view was ob- 
structed by a curious, pressing throng. The cavalry 
officer leaped from the car and pushed his way into the 
entrance. 

“Link, do you know the road to this Mezquital?” asked 
Madeline. 

“ Yes . I ’ ve been there. ’ ’ 

“How far is it?” 

“Aw, not so very far,” he mumbled. 

“Link! How many miles?” she implored. 


366 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

“I reckon omy a few.” 

Madeline knew that he lied. She asked him no more, 
nor looked at him, nor at Nels. How stifling was this 
crowded, ill-smelling plaza! The sun, red and lowering, 
had sloped far down in the west, but still burned with 
furnace heat. A swarm of flies whirled over the car. 
The shadows of low-sailing buzzards crossed Madeline’s 
sight. Then she saw a row of the huge, uncanny black 
birds sitting upon the tiled roof of a house. They had 
neither an air of sleeping nor resting. They were waiting. 
She fought off a horrible ghastly idea before its full realiza- 
tion. These rebels and guerrillas — ^what lean, yellow, 
bearded wretches! They curiously watched Link as he 
went working over the car. No two were alike, and all 
were ragged. They had glittering eyes sunk deep in 
their heads. They wore huge sombreros of brown and 
black felt, of straw, of cloth. Every man wore a belt or 
sash into which was thrust some kind of weapon. Some 
wore boots, some shoes, some moccasins, some sandals, 
and many were barefooted. They were an excited, jab- 
bering, gesticulating mob. Madeline shuddered to think 
how a frenzy to spill blood could run through these poor 
revolutionists. If it was liberty they fought for, they 
did not show the intelligence in their faces. They were 
like wolves upon a scent. They affronted her, shocked 
her. She wondered if their officers were men of the same 
class. What struck her at last and stirred pity in her 
was the fact that every man of the horde her swift glance 
roamed over, however dirty and bedraggled he was, wore 
upon him some ornament, some tassel or fringe or lace, 
some ensign, some band, bracelet, badge, or belt, some twist 
of scarf, something that betrayed the vanity which was 
the poor jewel of their souls. It was in the race. 

Suddenly the crowd parted to let the cavalry officer 
and a rebel of striking presence get to the car. 

“Madam, it is as I suspected,” said the officer, quickly. 
“The messages directing Stewart’s release never reached 
Salazar. They were intercepted. But even without 


THE RIDE 


367 

them we might have secured Stewart’s exchange if it had 
not been for the fact that one of his captors wanted him 
shot. This guerrilla intercepted the orders, and then was 
instrumental in taking Stewart to Mezquital. It is ex- 
ceedingly sad. Why, he should be a free man this instant. 
I regret — ” 

“Who did this — ^this thing?” cried Madeline, cold and 
sick. “Who is the guerrilla?” 

“Senor Don Carlos Martinez. He has been a bandit, 
a man of influence in Sonora. He is more of a secret agent 
in the affairs of the revolution than an active participator. 
But he has seen guerrilla service.” 

“Don Carlos! Stewart in his power! O God!” 
Madeline sank down, almost overcome. Then two great 
hands, powerful, thrilHng, clasped her shoulders, and Nels 
bent over her. 

“Miss Majesty, shore we’re wastin’ time here,” he said. 
His voice, like his hands, was uplifting. She wheeled to 
him in trembhng importunity. How cold, bright, blue 
the flash of his eyes! They told Madeline she must not 
weaken. But she could not speak her thought to Nels — 
could only look at Link. 

“It figgers impossible, but I’ll do it!” said Link Stevens, 
in answer to her voiceless query. The cold, grim, wild 
something about her cowboys blanched Madeline’s face, 
steeled her nerve, called to the depths of her for that last 
supreme courage of a woman. The spirit of the moment 
was nature with Link and Nels ; with her it must be passion. 

“ Can I get a permit to go into the interior — to Mezqui- 
tal?” asked Madeline of the officer. 

“You are going on? Madam, it’s a forlorn hope. 
Mezquital is a himdred miles away. . But there’s a chance 
— ^the barest chance if your man can drive this car. The 
Mexicans are either murderous or ceremonious in their 
executions. The arrangements for Stewart’s will be 
elaborate. But, barring unusual circumstances, it v/ill 
take place precisely at the hour designated. You need 
no permit. Your messages are official papers. But to 


368 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

save time, perhaps delay, I suggest you take this Mexican, 
Senor Montes, with you. He outranks Don Carlos and 
knows the captain of the Mezquital detachment.” 

“Ah! Then Don Carlos is not in command of the 
forces holding Stewart?” 

“No.” 

“I thank you, sir. I shall not forget your kindness,” 
concluded Madeline. 

She bowed to Senor Montes, and requested him to 
enter the car. Nels stowed some of the paraphernalia 
away, making room in the rear seat. Link bent over 
the wheel. The start was so sudden, with such crack and 
roar, that the crowd split in wild disorder. Out of the 
plaza the car ran, gathering headway; down a street lined 
by white and blue walls ; across a square where rebels were 
building barricades; along a railroad track full of iron 
flat-cars that carried mounted pieces of artillery; through 
the outlying guards, who waved to the officer, Montes. 

Madeline bound her glasses tightly over her eyes, and 
wound veils round the lower part of her face. She was 
all in a strange glow, she had begun to burn, to throb, 
to thrill, to expand, and she meant to see all that was 
possible. The sullen sun, red as fire, hung over the 
mountain range in the west. How low if had sunk! 
Before her stretched a narrow, white road, dusty, hard as 
stone — a highway that had been used for centuries. If 
it had been wide enough to permit passing a vehicle it 
would have been a magnificent course for automobiles. 
But the weeds and the dusty flowers and jhe mesquite 
boughs and arms of cactus brushed the car as it sped by. 

Faster, faster, faster ! That old resistless weight began 
to press Madeline back; the old incessant bellow of wind 
filled her ears. Link Stevens hunched low over the wheel. 
His eyes were hidden under leather helmet and goggles, 
but the lower part of his face was unprotected. He re- 
sembled a demon, so dark and stone-hard and strangely 
grinning was he. All at once Madeline realized how 
matchless, how wonderful a driver was this cowboy. 


THE RIDE 


369 

She divined that weakening could not have been possible 
to Link Stevens. He was a cowboy, and he really was 
riding that car, making it answer to his will, as it had 
been born in him to master a horse. He had never 
driven to suit himself, had never reached an all-satisfy- 
ing speed until now. Beyond that his motive was to 
save Stewart — to make Madeline happy. Life was noth- 
ing to him. That fact gave him the superhuman nerve to 
face the peril of this ride. Because of his disregard of 
self he was able to operate the machine, to choose the 
power, the speed, the guidance, the going with the best 
judgment and highest efficiency possible. Madeline 
knew he would get her to Mezquital in time to save 
Stewart or he would kill her in the attempt. 

The white, narrow road flashed out of the foreground, 
slipped with inconceivable rapidity under the car. When 
she marked a clump of cactus far ahead it seemed to shoot 
at her, to speed behind her even the instant she noticed 
it. Nevertheless, Madeline knew Link was not putting 
the car to its limit. Swiftly as he was flying, he held some- 
thing in reserve. But he took the turns of the road as if 
he knew the way was cleared before him. He trusted to 
a cowboy’s luck. A wagon in one of those curves, a herd 
of cattle, even a frightened steer, meant a wreck. Made- 
line never closed her eyes at these fateful moments. If 
Link could stake himself, the others, and her upon such 
chance, what could not she stake with her motive ? So while 
the great car hummed and thrummed, and darted round 
the curves on two wheels, and sped on like a bullet, Madeline 
lived that ride, meant to feel it to the uttermost. 

But it was not all swift going. A stretch of softer 
ground delayed Link, made the car labor and pant and 
pound and grind through gravel. Moreover, the cactus 
plants assumed an alarming ability to impede progress. 
Long, slender arms of the ocotillo encroached upon the 
road; broad, round leaves did likewise; fluted columns, 
fallen like timbers in a forest, lay along the narrow mar- 
gins; the bayonet cactus and the bisnagi leaned threat- 


370 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

eningly; clusters of maguey, shadowed by the huge, loom- 
ing saguaro, infringed upon the highway to Mezquital. 
And every leaf and blade and branch of cactus bore 
wicked thorns, any one of which would be fatal to a tire. 

It came at length, the bursting report. The car 
lurched, went on like a crippled thing, and halted, obedi- 
ent to the master hand at the wheel. Swift as Link was 
in replacing the tire, he lost time. The red sun, more 
sullen, duskier as it neared the black, bold horizon, ap- 
peared to mock Madeline, to eye her in derision. 

Link leaped in, and the car sprang ahead. The road- 
bed changed, the trees changed — ^all the surroundings 
changed except the cactus. There were miles of rolling 
ridges, rough in the hollows, and short rocky bits of road, 
and washes to cross, and a low, sandy swale where mes- 
quites grouped a forest along a trickling inch-deep sheet 
of water. Green things softened the hard, dry aspect 
of the desert. There were birds and parrots and deer and 
wild boars. All these Madeline remarked with clear 
eyes, with remarkable susceptibility of attention; but 
what she strained to see, what she yearned for, prayed 
for, was straight, unobstructed road. 

But the road began to wind up; it turned and twisted 
in tantalizing lazy curves ; it was in no hwcry to surmount 
a hill that began to assume proportions of a mountain; 
it was leisurely, as were all things in Mexico except strife. 
That was quick, fierce, bloody — it was Spanish. 

The descent from that elevation was difficult, extremely 
hazardous, yet Link Stevens drove fast. At the base of 
the hill rocks and sand all but halted him for good. Then 
in taking an abrupt curve a grasping spear ruined another 
tire. This time the car rasped across the road into the 
cactus, bursting the second front-wheel tire. Like demons 
indeed Link and Nels worked. Shuddering, Madeline 
felt the declining heat of the sun, saw with gloomy eyes 
the shading of the red light over the desert. She did not 
look back to see how near the sun was to the horizon. 
She wanted to ask Nels. Strange as anything on this 


THE RIDE 


37 } 

terrible ride was the absence of speech. As yet no word had 
been spoken. Madeline wanted to shriek to Link to hurry. 
But he was more than humanly swift in all his actions. 
So with mute lips, with the fire in her beginning to chill, 
with a lifelessness menacing her spirit, she watched, hoped 
against hope, prayed for a long, straight, smooth road. 

Quite suddenly she saw it, seemingly miles of clear, 
narrow lane disappearing like a thin, white streak in distant 
green. Perhaps Link Stevens’s heart leaped like Madeline’s. 
The huge car with a roar and a ierk seemed to answer 
Madeline’s call, a cry no less poignant because it was silent. 

Faster, faster, faster! The roar became a whining hum. 
Then for Madeline sound ceased to be anything — she 
could not hear. The wind was now heavy, imponderable, 
no longer a swift, plastic thing, but solid, like an on- 
rushing wall. It bore down upon Madeline with such 
resistless weight that she could not move. The green of 
desert plants along the road merged in two shapeless 
fences, sliding at her from the distance. Objects ahead 
began to blur the white road, to grow streaky, like rays 
of light, the sky to take on more of a reddening haze. 

Madeline, realizing her sight was failing her, turned 
for one more look at Link Stevens. It had come to be 
his ride almost as much as it was hers. He hunched 
lower than ever, rigid, strained to the last degree, a terrible, 
implacable driver. This was his hour, and he was great. 
If he so much as brushed a flying tire against one of the 
millions of spikes clutching out, striking out from the 
cactus, there would be a shock, a splitting wave of air — 
an end. Madeline thought she saw that Link’s bulging 
cheek and jaw were gray, that his tight-shut lips were 
white, that the smile was gone. Then he really was hu- 
man — ^not a demon. She felt a strange sense of brother- 
hood. He understood a woman’s soul as Monty Price 
had understood it. Link was the lightning-forged au- 
tomaton, the driving, relentless, unconquerable instru- 
ment of a woman’s will. He was a man whose force was 
directed by a woman’s passion. He reached up to her 


372 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

height, felt her love, understood the nature of her agony. 
These made him heroic. But it was the hard life, the 
wild years of danger on the desert, the companionship 
of ruthless men, the elemental, that made possible his 
physical achievement. Madeline loved his spirit then 
and gloried in the man. 

She had pictured upon her heart, never to be forgotten, 
this little hunched, deformed figure of Link’s hanging 
with daimtless, with deathless grip over the wheel, his 
gray face like a marble, mask. 

That was Madeline’s last clear sensation upon the ride 
Blinded, dazed, she succumbed to the demands upon her 
strength. She reeled, fell back, only vaguely aware of a 
helping hand. Confusion seized her senses. All about 
her was a dark chaos through which she was rushing, 
rushing, rushing under the wrathful red eye of a setting 
sun. Then, as there was no more sound or sight for her, 
she felt there was no color. But the rush never slackened 
— 2i rush through opaque, limitless space. For moments, 
hours, ages she was propelled with the velocity of a shoot- 
ing-star. The earth seemed a huge automobile. And it 
sped with her down an endless white track through the 
universe. Looming, ghostly, ghastly, spectral forms of 
cacti plants, large as pine-trees, stabbed her with giant 
spikes. She became an unstable being in a shapeless, 
colorless, soimdless cosmos of imrelated things, but al- 
ways rushing, even to meet the darkness that haimted . 
her and never reached her. 

But at an end of infinite time that rush ceased. Made- 
line lost the queer feeling of being disembodied by a fright- 
fully swift careening through boimdless distance. She dis- 
tinguished voices, low at first, apparently far away. Then 
she opened her eyes to blurred but conscious sight. 

The car had come to a stop. Link was lying face down 
over the wheel. Nels was rubbing her hands, calling to her. 
She saw a house with clean whitewashed wall and brown- 
tiled roof. Beyond, over a dark mountain range, peeped 
the last red curve, the last beautiful ray of the setting sim. 


<^373 


XXV 

, AT THE END OF THE ROAD 

M adeline saw that the car was surrounded by armed 
Mexicans. They presented a contrast to the others 
she had seen that day; she wondered a little at their 
silence, at their respectful front. 

Suddenly a sharp spoken order opened up the ranks 
next to the house. Senor Montes appeared in the break, 
coming swiftly. His dark face wore a smile; his manner 
was courteous, important, authoritative. 

‘‘Sehora, it is not too late!” 

He spoke her language with an accent strange to her, 
so that it seemed to hinder understanding. 

“Sehora, you got here in time,” he went on. “El 
Capitan Stewart will be free.” 

‘ ‘ Free 1” she whispered. 

She rose, reeling. 

“ Come,” replied Montes, taking her arm. '' Perddnemey 
Senora.” 

Without his assistance she would have fallen wholly 
upon Nels, who supported her on the other side. They 
helped her alight from the car. For a moment the white 
walls, the hazy red sky, the dark figures of the rebels, 
whirled before Madeline’s eyes. She took a few steps, 
swaying between her escorts; then the confusion of her 
sight and mind pass d away. It was as if she quickened 
with a thousand vivifying currents, as if she could see 
and hear and feel everything in the world, as if nothing 
could be overlooked, forgotten, neglected. 

She turned back, remembering Link. He was lurching 
from the car, helmet and goggles thrust back, the gray 


374 the light of western STARSl 

shade gone from his face, the cool, bright gleam of his 
eyes disappearing for something warmer. 

Senor Montes led Madeline and her cowboys through 
a hall to a patio, and on through a large room with floor- 
ing of rough, bare boards that rattled, into a smaller 
room full of armed quiet rebels facing an open window. 

Madeline scanned the faces of these men, expecting to 
see Don Carlos. But he was not present. A soldier ad- 
dressed her in Spanish too swiftly uttered, too voluble for 
her to translate. But, like Senor Montes, he was gracious 
and, despite his ragged garb and uncouth appearance, he 
bore the unmistakable stamp of authority. 

Montes directed Madeline’s attention to a man by the 
window. A loose scarf of vivid red hung from his hand. 

‘‘ Senora, they were waiting for the sim to set when we 
arrived,” said Montes. “The signal v/as about to be 
given for Senor Stewart’s walk to death.” 

“Stewart’s walk!” echoed Madeline. 

“Ah, Senora, let me tell you his sentence — the sentence 
I have had the honor and happiness to revoke for you.” 

Stewart had been court-martialed and sentenced accord- 
ing to a Mexican custom observed in cases of brave soldiers 
to whom honorable and fitting executions were due. His 
hour had been set for Thursday when the sun had simk. 
Upon signal he was to be liberated and was free to walk 
out into the road, to take any direction he pleased. He 
knew his sentence; knew that death awaited him, that 
every possible avenue of escape was blocked by men with 
rifles ready. But he had not the slightest idea at what 
moment or from what direction the bullets were to come. 

“Senora, we have sent messengers to every squad of 
waiting soldiers — an order that El Capitan is not to be 
shot. He is ignorant of his release. I shall give the sig- 
nal for his freedom.” 

Montes was ceremonious, gallant, emotional. Made- 
line saw his pride, and divined that the situation was one 
which brought out the vanity, the ostentation, as well as 
the cruelty of his race. He would keep her in an agony 


AT THE END OF THE ROAD 


375 

of suspense, let Stewart start upon that terrible walk in 
ignorance of his freedom. It was the motive of a Span- 
iard. Suddenly Madeline had a horrible quaking fear 
that Montes lied, that he meant her to be a witness of 
Stewart’s execution. But no, the man was honest ; he was 
only barbarous. He would satisfy certain instincts of his 
nature — sentiment, romance, cruelty — ^by starting Stewart 
upon that walk, by watching Stewart’s actions in the 
face of seeming death, by seeing Madeline’s agony of doubt, 
fear, pity, love. Almost Madeline felt that she could not 
endure the situation. She was weak and tottering. 

“Senora! Ah, it will be one beautiful thing!” Montes 
caught the scarf from the rebel’s hand. He was glowing, 
passionate; his eyes had a strange, soft, cold flash; his 
voice was low, intense. He was living something splendid 
to him. '‘I’ll wave the scarf, Senora. That will be the 
signal. It will be seen down at the other end of the 
road. Senor Stewart’s jailer will see the signal, take off 
Stewart’s irons, release him, open the door for his walk. 
Stewart will be free. But he will not know. He will 
expect death. As he is a brave man, he will face it. He 
will walk this way. Every step of that walk he will expect 
to be shot from some unloiown quarter. But he will not 
be afraid. Senora, I have seen El Captain fighting in the 
field. What is death to him? Ah, will it not be magnifi- 
cent to see him come forth — to walk down? Senora, you 
will see what a man he is. All the way he will expect 
cold, swift death. Here at this end of the road he will 
meet his beautiful lady!” 

“Is there no — no possibility of a mistake?” faltered 
Madeline. 

“ None. My order included unloading of rifles.” 

“Don Carlos?” 

“He is in irons, and must answer to General Salazar,” 
replied Montes. 

Madeline looked down the deserted road. How strange 
to see the last ruddy glow of the sun over the brow of 
the mountain range! The thought of that sunset had 


376 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

been torture for her. Yet it had passed, and now the 
afterlights were luminous, beautiful, prophetic. 

With a heart stricken by both joy and agony, she saw 
Montes wave the scarf. 

Then she waited. No change manifested itself down the 
length of that lonely road. There was absolute silence in the 
room behind her. How terribly, infinitely long seemed the 
waiting! Never in all her future life wotild she forget the 
quaint pink, blue, and white walled houses with their colored 
roofs. That dusty bare road resembled one of the uncovered 
streets of Pompeii with its look of centuries of solitude. 

Suddenly a door opened and a tall man stepped out. 

Madeline recognized Stewart. She had to place both 
hands on the window-sill for support, while a storm of 
emotion swayed her. Like a retreating wave it rushed away. 
Stewart lived. He was free. He had stepped out into the 
light. She had saved him. Life changed for her in that 
instant of realization and became sweet, full, strange. 

Stewart shook hands with some one in the doorway. 
Then he looked up and down the road. The door closed 
behind him. Leisurely he rolled a cigarette, stood close 
to the wall while he scratched a match. Even at that 
distance Madeline’s keen eyes caught the small flame, 
the first littl'^ ruff of smoke. 

Stewart thei took to the middle of the road and leisurely 
began his Wc :. 

To Madeline he appeared natural, walked as uncon- 
cernedly as if he were strolling for pleasure; but the ab- 
sence of any other living thing, the silence, the red haze, 
the surcharged atmosphere — ^these were all unnatural. 
From time to time Stewart stopped to turn face forward 
toward houses and corners. Only silence greeted these 
significant moves of his. Once he halted to roll and light 
another cigarette. After that his step quickened 

Madeline watched him, with pride, love, pain, glory 
combating for a mastery over her. This walk of his 
seemingly took longer than all her hours of awakening, 
of strife, of remorse, longer than the ride to find him. 


AT THE END OF THE ROAD 377 

She felt that it would be impossible for her to wait till he 
reached the end of the road. Yet in the hurry and riot 
of her feelings she had fleeting panics. What could she 
say to him? How meet him? Well she remembered the 
tall, powerful form now growing close enough to dis- 
tinguish its dress. Stewart’s face was yet only a dark 
gleam. Soon she would see it — ^long before he could 
know she was there. She wanted to run to meet him. 
Nevertheless, she stood rooted to her covert behind the 
window, living that terrible walk with him to the utter- 
most thought of home, sister, mother, sweetheart, wife, 
life itself — every thought that could come to a man stalk- 
ling to meet his executioners. With all that tumult in her 
' mind and heart Madeline still fell prey to the incompre- 
hensible variations of emotion possible to a woman. 
Every step Stewart took thrilled her. She had some 
strange, subtle intuition that he was not unhappy, and 
that he believed beyond shadow of doubt that he was 
walking to his death. His steps dragged a little, though 
they had begun to be swift. The old, hard, physical, wild 
nerve of the cowboy was perhaps in <"onflict with spiritual 
growth of the finer man, realizijig too late that life ought 
not to be sacrificed. 

Then the dark gleam that was his face took -hape, grew 
sharper and clearer. He was stalking now, ^nd there was 
a suggestion of impatience in his stride. It^Took these 
hidden Mexicans a long time to kill him! Au a point in 
the middle of the road, even with the comer of a house 
and opposite to Madeline’s position, Stewart halted stock- 
still. He presented a fair, bold mark to his executioners, 
and he stood there motionless a full moment. 

Only silence greeted him. Plain it was to Madeline, 
and she thought to all who had eyes to see, that to Stew- 
art, since for some reason he had been spared all along 
his walk, this was the moment when he ought to be 
mercifully shot. But as no shots came a rugged dignity 
left him for a reckless scorn manifest in the way he 
strolled across to the corner of the house, rolled yet an- 


378 THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS 

other cigarette, and, presenting a broad breast to the win- . 
dow, smoked and waited. | 

That wait was almost unendurable for Madeline. Per- 
haps it was only a moment, several moments at the long- 
est, but the time seemed a year. Stewart’s face was 
scornful, hard. Did he suspect treachery on the part of 
his captors, that they meant to play with him as a cat 
with a mouse, to murder him at leisure? Madeline was 
sure she caught the old, inscrutable, mocking smile fleeting 
across his lips. He held that position for what must have 
been a reasonable time to his mind, then with a laugh and ; 
a shrug he threw the cigarette into the road. He shook , 
his head as if at the incomprehensible motives of men //, 
who could have no fair reasons now for delay. I 

He made a sudden violent action that was more than I 
a straightening of his powerful frame. It was the old ^ 
instinctive violence. Then he faced north. Madeline 
read his thought, knew he was thinking of her, calling 
her a last silent farewell. He would serve her to his last 
breath, leave her free, keep his secret. That picture of 
him, dark-browed, fire-eyed, strangely sad and strong, 
sank indelibly into Madeline’s heart of hearts 

The next instant he was striding for yard, to force by bold 
and scornful presence a speedy fulfilment of his sentence. 

Madeline stepped into the door, crossed the threshold. 
Stewart staggered as if indeed the bullets he expected 
had pierced him in mortal woimd. His dark face turned 
white. His eyes had the rapt stare, the wild fear of a man 
who saw an apparition, yet who doubted his sight. Per- 
haps he had called to her as the Mexicans called to their 
Virgin; perhaps he imagined sudden death had come 
unawares, and this was her image appearing to him in 
some other life. 

“Who — are — ^you?” he whispered, hoarsely. 

She tried to lift her hands, failed, tried again, and held 
them out, trembling. 

“It is 1. Majesty. Your wife!” 

THE END 






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